It Starts With Desperation
by CleverDucky
Summary: You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. M/M
1. I see

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter One**

_I see_

Hunter

* * *

He doesn't understand who the man is, doesn't understand why he suddenly feels wary and why the overwhelming, _pressing_, need to leap and attack is muted. Oh, he still wants to sink his unnaturally sharp teeth into that soft flesh and suck the blood from the bone, still wants to rip the tendons and gnaw on the nerve endings.

He just _can't._

He hides in the shadows, watching. Golden eyes glazed and unfocused as he pants, claws digging into the cracked mortar of the concrete slab (the only thing left, really, of the building he's crouched on) beneath him. His skin prickles with uncertainty-_eateatisitsafe?_-and yet he refuses to move forward because-_nonotsafenotsafe_.

It's confusing to be at war with one's instincts. He's never felt it before and it leaves him scrambling for purchase, scared and irritated. In the end, he settles for slumping forward and following after the man, trembling and constantly sniffing the air, tasting the man's scent on his tongue. His arms and legs ache from being tensed for so long, yet he can't relax.

He can see the firestick strapped over the man's broad shoulders and clutched in his hands. He can see sharp daggers tucked in various states through his dusty clothes. They glint in the few remaining poles of light that line some of the streets. They hurt his eyes sometimes, but he doesn't look away for long.

* * *

Days go by sluggishly, as if moving through blood, and he stops wondering why he's following. He just does. He's been able to pick up words now and then, though he doesn't understand them. "Fuck" is one, and he's sounded it out to himself in that confusing human-tongue so different from a Hunter's harsh barking way of speech. The man screams it sometimes, mostly during the afternoons when the sun is at its highest peak, and he sounds angry.

"Lacey" is another of the words. The man is upset when he says it, and he thinks maybe the man will cry - but he doesn't. Not while he's awake, anyway. The man will fall asleep and repeat the word again and again, moaning like a dying animal, and _then _he will cry.

There are more words, but he can't remember them. They slip from his mind like water and he allows it, because there are more important things.

Like finding food. There's less and less food the further he follows him, as the buildings turn to broken shelters and the hard roads to grainy sand that trips him and burns his feet. He gets hungrier and hungrier, but still he cannot bring himself to eat the man.

Or rather, he will not let himself eat him. Something holds him back, makes him retreat, though he's sure that if the time ever came when the only means of surviving was feasting on the man, he wouldn't hesitate.

The attacks on the man have become less frequent (which he is both glad and resentful of). It had been difficult at first to fight off brothers while staying hidden. He thinks the man is suspicious though, because he glances over his shoulder more often than not, and he is tense.

His scent has a stronger tinge of fear than normal, of trepidation, which excites the predator in him only to die slowly after miles of crawling and staggering through the sand. Sometimes, while watching the man sleep, he wonders what he's looking for. Why does he keep going, when he knows sooner or later something is going to make him its meal?

* * *

Its night when he decides to venture closer. He doesn't know how long its been, only that he hasn't eaten for too long a time. His stomach is in constant pain and his throat...he whimpers brokenly to himself. There is no way to describe how his throat _aches_.

He can't help but wonder if he will die of hunger, of thirst.

The man is sleeping under the roof of an abandoned shelter, the walls crumbling and leaking sand back onto the ground. He can see him slumped against a wall, knees pressed against his chest and head resting against his raised arms.

He watches from a safe distance, body trembling with sudden apprehension and excitement. The man breathes softly, barely making a sound.

Time passes as he waits. The moon moves from one side of the sky to just past its zenith before he finally creeps forward, sniffing causiously, every muscle in his lean body tense and ready to flee.

The man's scent is sharp and strong the closer he gets, slinking through the shadows and pausing every few feet, hissing worriedly to himself and gnawing at his cracked lips in frustration. The firestick is propped against the wall next to him, looking dangerous and ominous in the soft light of the moon.

He crawls carefully over the half-wall that had once been a fully structured barrier, but over time had been reduced to rubble and dust. His feet and hands miss the loose bits of rock and drywall, his eyes pinned on the man as he moves with all the grace of a preying cat.

_Sohungryfood...?_

He licks his lips and stops a few yards from the man. When he makes no movement, he circles around to the wall furthest away and crouches into the shadows there, peering out from beneath his hood. He's watched the man long enough to know that the bag he carries holds things he can eat, and he thinks, maybe, if he's quiet enough, he'll be able to get it.

Just then a sharp lance of pain stabs through his stomach and he whines pitifully under his breath. _Hungry...sohungry..._

He swallows and leans forward, liquid gold eyes bright and glittering ferally as they lock on the sleeping man. The waiting is killing him, but he still does it, watching to see if the man will wake up, watching to see if he will suddenly reach for the firestick.

Finally, mercifully, he inches out of the shadows and into the pale light of the moon, eyes sliding from the slumped body to the bag barely a yard in front of him. He so quiet, so _very _quiet, he's not even all that sure he's breathing.

Movement.

He barely has time to yelp before his back is _slammed_ into the rock-hard floor-and then the screaming starts.

* * *

He howls and shrieks so loud it hurts his own ears, but he doesn't stop. He jerks left and right, flips onto his stomach, tries to gather his feet under him, and gets shoved back down. The man is yelling harsh, grunting words that grate over his skin and he wishes he knew what he was saying so he could understand _something _for once instead of being so mixed up.

The man grips his shoulders and the instinct to _killkillkill _is so strong that he snarls and twists, unnaturally sharp canines bared and ready, claws reaching-but then that thing that always bars him from killing the man bowls into him and he reels back, smacking his head on the floor with a painful _crack_.

He starts to struggle again, though his movements are shaky and uncertain and crazily frantic. He screams out again, desperate.

The man roars back, "_Why have you been following me_? _What do you want_?" and grips him by the shoulders, slamming him back down again and again. Again and again, his head smacks the floor.

He doesn't understand.

He can't understand.

_Painrunhidepain...pain...the pain._

He hisses and gathers his legs beneath the man's chest, and _kicks_. When the heavy weight is gone, he rolls to his stomach and lurches to his feet. The world spins.

He falls back to the floor in heap before pulling himself up on all fours, crawling, stumbling as his sight blurs in and out of focus; his stomach rolls.

_Click._ "Don't move."

He freezes. _Firestick._

He growls fearfully to himself, terrified, because he knows he's too weak to do anything. He can't defend himself. When he turns, he's looking down a dark, gaping barrel that smells like metal and smoke.

The darkness stretches toward him, and he emits a sound so full of terror and pain and confusion it's _scary, _and the blackness just keeps reaching and reaching until it's all he can see.

His head thwacks against the floor one last time.

* * *

The dust is thick in the air and he struggles to breathe. When he opens his eyes, he hisses and swings his head away, immediatly scrambling back from the bright sunlight that had burned his sensitive eyes.

There isn't much shadow, but he crouches there anyway, squeezing into a tight ball and whimpering. The man is gone. He closes his eyes tightly and growls warily deep in his throat.

When he tries to sniff the air for some lingering sign of the man, a scent immediately claims his attention and he's on the other side of the structure in less than a second, not even aware of when the concsious decision to move seized him.

There's food.

The meat is rough and dry in his mouth, but he doesn't care. _Sohungrysohungry_. There isn't enough, and too soon it's gone. He whimpers brokenly and licks his fingers, eyes half-mast and glazed with hunger. Pain stabs through his stomach again and he doubles over with a gasp.

His head pounds and his stomach aches and his throat is so, _so _parched.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, but the sound of rocks crunching under footsteps reaches his ears and he tenses. Swinging his head around, he stares out from under his hood at the man as he comes to a stop a safe distance away, his firestick clutched in his hands and aimed at the floor between them.

With a hiss he scoots back against the wall on all fours and huddles there, eyes wide and teeth bared.

The man mutters something.

He snarls.

The man drops his bag onto the floor and reaches into one of the pockets, drawing out something clear and plastic that makes swishy noises as it moves. He growls warningly and presses closesr against the wall. Blue eyes stare at him, scowling, and he stares back without blinking, wishing to just leap away and run - but the _sun_. It _burns_.

The man brings the bottle to his lips, and from his place against the wall, he can see the man's throat working. He's drinking from it. A bit of liquid slides from the corner of the man's mouth and drips off his chin, and the man is giving him this pointed look that is angry and untrusting.

And he finally understands. The smell of water blinds him for a moment, takes over his body and just for a second he's completely out of control.

He blinks.

The firestick is pressing against the fabric of his hood at his forhead and he's whimpering. With a start, he jerks back and hisses threateningly. He's confused, he doesn't remember moving from his place against the wall and coming so close to the man.

"What do you want?"

The man's voice is rough and callous. He growls low in his throat and slowly retreats, eyeing the firestick as he does. _Butwater...water...drink?_

He doesn't like water all that much, but when food would get low back where the buildings were, he'd have to drink from puddles or broken boxes that spewed water and dripped from their pipes. He misses hunting, he misses warm, fresh kills. _Good...wantblood? Meat? Nothere._

The man lowers his firestick and is looking at him in what he knows is disgust. And fear. There is a lot of fear.

But he feels fear, too. He's still too weak, and the man has a firestick ready to cause so much _painpain__**pain**_.

The man makes a noise of revulsion and chucks the bottle at him, and if he wasn't adapted to making abrupt movements, it would have knocked him right in the head. He snarls because he knows that's what the man had wanted to happen.

* * *

He hasn't touched the bottle. It remains where it landed just a few scant inches from him, yet he won't take it. The man is amused by this, he seems to find it funny and will laugh each time he turns his head to glance at the water.

He stays crouched against the wall, snarling and whimpering, unsure of what to do. He wants the water-_drinkdrinksothirsty_-but he doesn't trust the man. Doesn't want to accept it in front of him because somehow it just seems _wrong._ As if he is admitting something if he does, though he doesn't know _what _and it frustrates him.

So he doesn't move, and his throat becomes drier and his tongue swells and sticks to the roof of his mouth and he eventually collapses, completely exhausted and weak and losing the fight at staying awake.

It's only when the man scoffs at him and walks out of his sight that he pulls himself over the hard floor toward the bottle. It's capped, and he has to struggle with twisting the top before he can get at the water inside and drink.

It's stale and warm, but he doesn't care. He keeps swallowing as long as water hits his lips, and then bites the crackly plastic when there isn't anymore. He's still thirsty, but it's bearable now. He's not in danger of dying for the first time in days.

He leaves before the man returns.

* * *

The night comes and passes and still he does not get close to the man again. He stays well out of sight, hiding and hunting as best he can. Slithers are the only thing he can get; their scaly skin is peeled back easily enough by his claws, but they still don't taste as good as human flesh does. And they bite him if he's not quick.

He scrounges around in the brush for a little while, searching for something to eat, before he doubles back and stands to sniff the air. He smells brothers riding the slight breeze under the man's scent, cold and acrid to his sensitive nose. Familiar. Dangerous.

He bares his teeth and drops back into a crouch. The something in him pushes him to close in on the man, at least until he's within sight, and stay there. The man is still in the same shelter, slumped against the same wall and looking for all the world as if he's in a deep sleep.

He knows it's a lie. He learned his lesson before, he won't make the same mistake twice. If anything, the man is only dozing, because he isn't saying that word. _Lacey_. He isn't saying _Lacey._

The man is listening for him, waiting for him to show up again. Maybe he's waiting to hurt him with his firestick. He trembles and slinks back a little, growling softly under his breath.

He won't venture closer. No, he'll stay away for a little while.

He curls into a tight ball under a prickly bush to sleep, his head throbbing.

* * *

**A/N: **Second story, up and running! /cheers/

This ENTIRE piece is heavily and shamelessly inspired by the wonderful _Keenon_, who's story Gratification drew me into Hunter/Human like a junkie looking for a fix. Which I am, because I'm addicted to her story, because it's amazing. I definately recommend it.

Hope you guys are liking this so far. If you want to see pictures of these two, you can go to my dA page. Link in profile.


	2. What's going to

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Two**

_What's going to_

Michael

* * *

Michael's awake before dawn, stretching out his cramped legs and massaging the stiff muscles with a scowl. The thing hadn't come back at all during the night which doesn't surprise him in the least. As far as he's concerned, good riddance. Maybe he's scared it off for good and he can continue on his way without worrying about being attacked from behind.

He heaves a silent sigh and rakes his hands through his short hair. He has to move on, keep searching for people, he can't be the only one left alive. Before his radio cut out, Lawrence and him had been heading for a small safe-zone just outside of Richfield, Utah. A little area deep within the Great Basin desert far enough away from the infected to be protected, though still close enough to pull raids with little to no fatalites.

At least, that's what the speakers' broadcast had said. And that had been over two months ago, it was hard to tell what kind of conditions things were in now. Everyone could be dead, could be infected.

Michael bites the inside of his cheek and shakes off the thought. If Lawrence were still around, he would have called him a sissy and probably punched him the shoulder. Lawrence wasn't doing much of anything anymore, though. Michael had buried him a little over three weeks ago after a food-scavenge gone awry; a few days before that, the both of them had buried what was left of Lacey, Michael's sister - Lawrence's fiance, in a shallow hole dug into the hard packed earth with their bare hands.

He misses them so much it hurts.

* * *

I-80 is barren and devoid of any sign of life. He's used to this though, he's been following the interstate for a long time now. The cars left haphazardly on the sides of the road no longer make him want to scream and kick like a child; they only conjure up a sense of black emptiness where he knows something is supposed to clench in pain but doesn't.

Snakes no longer pause to consider him anymore when they slither past over the cracked asphalt, they just pass right on by without sending even a careless glance his way. Maybe they know the world has ended, too, and that they should be burrowing underground in meager attempts at survival.

He doesn't see any other animal besides them except scorpions and the occasional crow. Death's pets, he thinks. Death's tamed ones.

Michael blinks up at the sun and sighs. It's almost evening, which means he'll have to find somewhere to rest. He's walked a long way, but it's dangerous to walk alone in the dark. Night is when the monsters come out to play.

There isn't much to choose from. On principle he stays away from roadside convience stores when the sun is down; repeating what happened to Lawrence isn't high on his list. There are some bushes growing close together that are high enough for him to crawl under, it'd only be for a few hours anyway, and really it can't be that bad.

The worst has already happened, nothing else can even come close to shocking him.

Out of habit of the past week he finds himself glancing over his shoulder, looking for that _thing _that was tailing him. It's not there. At least, he doesn't think it's there, he can't be sure anymore. He thinks he might be seeing things because the water's almost gone, there are only two more bottles left (would have been three, but the stupid infected dog guzzled an entire bottle) and he can feel the heat getting inside his head, pressing against his eyes.

A shadow flits through the scraggly underbrush, but he shrugs because it doesn't _look _like his hunter.

Michael allows himself a bitter smirk. _His _hunter, huh? Yeah, his hunter alright. The one he's saving a special bullet for with the word _'Zero' _scratched into the side. Because that's what they should be, their entire existence should be snuffed out. They shouldn't be alive, shouldn't have the _right _to live. It doesn't matter that they used to be human once, the aren't anymore.

* * *

Michael fingers his Browning and wonders how long he can make three bullets last. If he's attacked, they won't save him. Not unless he can somehow improve his aim by a hundred percent in under five minutes. Two shots to the eyes and one to the head would probably kill a small one, but against the big giant ones, it wouldn't do much of anything. His shotgun might have done a little more damage, but he'd run out of ammo miles back.

He regrets not picking up what he could at the Mini-Mart where Lawrence was attacked. Granted the place was swarming with the parasites, and there was no possible way for him to drag Lawrence _and _the supplies at the same time without getting the _both_ of them killed, but still, he can't help but wish he had tried.

"Alright, Michael, enough," he says, wincing at how rough and hoarse his voice is. How long has it been since he's talked to anyone? "Just...just lay down and try to sleep."

The branches of the bush scratch at his exposed neck, and he has to wiggle around for a few minutes before he's even remotely comfortable. It's a far cry from a five-star hotel room, but that's what happens when a zombie apocolypse hits and slaps you in the face.

He lays there staring out of his cover, watching the dark creep and spread until hardly anything is visible. There aren't any feral roars crying out in the shadows now because, finally, he's put the city and the infected behind him. He won't have to face another place like it for more than two weeks, and then after that it's a straight shot to the safe zone.

The map he uses is old and almost to the point of being unreadable. He hopes it lasts until he can try to make a raid.

* * *

He knows he's dreaming.

He knows he's dreaming because Lacey is there and she's laughing at him again because he can't figure out how to fit one of her damned puzzles together. He's always hated those things, and she's always found it hilarious that he did.

"Come on, Mikey. It's not that hard."

"The hell it isn't, it's not going to fit, Lace."

She moves closer and takes the piece from his shaking fingers. Why is he shaking? "Here," she whispers and leans down to the puzzle. "Everything has a place. You just got to work harder to find it sometimes."

"Lace?" he tries to say, only he can't speak and he ends up making this weird keening kind of sound instead. Something isn't right.

"Hey, do ya think the sky will ever be blue again?"

Michael watches as she easily fits in the piece before tipping her head back and looking at the sky. He looks up too, and feels a heavy sense of dread settle on his stomach. They sky is blood red, and the clouds are black.

"No," he hears himself say, and he sounds miserable. The sadness is so tangible it makes his heart ache in his chest. "No, Lace, I don't think it will."

She turns back to meet his eye and he's not surprised to see her smiling. She was always smiling, even when things had gone to hell. Though her smiles were more or less forced then, at least she had tried.

"Poor Mikey, he just doesn't know."

Michael frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"This is how the world ends. This is how the world ends."

"Lacey?"

"This is how the world ends-"

"_Lacey!_" Michael reaches out to grab her sleeve, but suddenly it's not his sister sitting next to him anymore, it's that _thing _- his Hunter - Zero, and it's grinning like mad with blood dripping down its chin as it laughs and laughs and _laughs_.

It leans forward, lips stretching back even further over it's teeth and Michael hears himself making that pathetic keening noise again. When it speaks, its voice is raw and harsh, like a dying animals' cry. "_Not with a bang, but a __**whimper**__._"

It lunges, Michael screams.

* * *

He wakes up to the sound of his own screaming and "Lacey" dies on his lips as he looks up and sees the moon. It wasn't real. None of it, but it had _seemed _like it was, there at the end. He rolls out of the bushes, gasping and sweating, and sits with his head resting on his knees.

He fights it as long as he can, but in the end the tears come anyway, squeezing past his closed eyes and leaking into the worn fabric of his jeans. His fists beat a gentle rythm against his legs, giving tempo to the heavy breaths he takes. He just can't _stand _it anymore, _any _of it.

He might have muffled a scream or two against his knees.

It's a long time before he lifts his head and wipes his eyes. His head aches, but he ignores it and looks around him. The dark is still as omnious as ever, still pressing in on him from all sides, and he figures he has a handful of hours left until first light before he will have to move out again.

He hears it then, and his gun is out and aimed before even a second has passed.

"Fuck, _fuck_." He wasn't paying attention, he'd thought he was okay out here, but no, something was close now. _It was barely a yard away_. Fear seizes his throat and he scrambles to his feet, teeth gnashing closed against his bottom lip and splitting it. Was it one of the big ones? Or one of those female ones, the ones that were so insane he wouldn't stand a chance in hell?

For a split second, he hopes to God it's his hunter.

Michael stumbles back a step, wishing fiercely for shells and the familiar weight of his shotgun. It would have done so much more damage, would have protected him a lot more than just his Browning. God_damn_ it.

"Come out!" he shouts, and readies to shoot. If he can just get in one lucky shot, just one, maybe he can live through this.

Something hisses, and his muscles sieze up. No _way_.

It comes out from between two bushes, low to the ground and moving slow and stiff, like it knows one wrong move will get it shot. Michael imagines he can see two golden eyes peering out at him from beneath its hood, and he fights back a shudder.

Despite everything, he feels a little relieved. He shakes it off, though, because there's nothing to be relieved about, he's seen what these things can do. They're nothing but monsters out for human flesh, and sometimes even their own. It's all so disgusting he gets sick just thinking about it.

"What do you want?" he snaps, and jabs his gun at it for emphasis. "Why the fuck do you keep following me?" It just jerks back, flinching away from the gun and growls low in its throat. Michael stiffens.

Neither move. It's like a statue crouched there, still and silent, it doesn't even look as if it's breathing. Michael swallows and tries to fight back his fear. What does it _want_? He almost wishes it would attack him instead of just staring, calculating and memorizing. Were they smart enough for that? Could they even think, or were they driven on pure instinct?

Michael takes another step back. His hunter shifts, flinches.

"What do you want?" he asks again, only it's no more than a whisper. But the thing, his hunter, _Zero_, cocks its head a little like he heard him, like he understands, and rises a little out of its crouch. Michael unconsciously makes a low and terrifed moan.

And then it's gone. Just like that.

Michael collapses to his knees, unable to fight the terror any longer; it rises and rises and grips his heart and lungs, freezing the blood in his viens and turning his body to ice. The scream claws itself up his throat and he knows he can't keep it under, so he bends over and covers his mouth with his hands. His blunt, chewed nails bite into his skin, and he screams until his throat is raw, until the fear subsides and he can hear his blood pounding in his ears and his jagged breaths cutting through the thick night air.

Slowly, he puts his hands on the ground and tries to stop the violent tremors ripping through his body. It takes a moment, but when he's a little more stable than before, he pushes himself back to his feet and stumbles back to his bush.

He sleeps in fits and starts, nightmares full of leaping shadows and bloody teeth, and, faintly, he hears Maggie and Lacey singing the lullaby their mother would always hum in whispers:

"_Golden summers kiss your eyes, smiles await you when you rise. Sleep - pretty baby - do not cry, and I'll sing you a lullaby. Care you know not, therefore sleep, while I o'er you watch do keep. Sleep - pretty darling - do not cry, and I will sing a lullaby._"

* * *

The sun isn't as hot that afternoon, which worries him. He hasn't really been keeping track of time, but he guess it's around early September. He's not a native to Nevada, he never really payed attention to the weather patterns even after getting here, but Lawrence had mentioned that around late August, they would have to be stocking up on thicker clothes.

"You never really know with Nevada, man, it's almost like it skips right over Fall and jumps right into Winter," he had said, marking their route with a red pen. "Gonna have to make a raid soon, Mikey. Or we'll turn into _popsicles_ for those disgusting things to lick."

Michael rubs the back of his neck and squats down on the interstate to dig around in his bag. He only has one hoodie, a nondescript thin black one with a crooked zipper. It'll keep him warm for now, but he knows he'll have to make a stop. He hates it, but everything is running low. Bullets, food, water...

With a sigh he carefully pulls out his map and flattens it on the uneven asphalt. The red line that Lawrence had made is still there, though faint, and Michael traces it with his finger. Another two miles, three at most, and it branches off to a little town called Midpoint. He wonders if there's some kind of hidden pun behind it.

He packs the map back up and stands, slipping it inside a zip-lock bag, and pulls out the hoodie. The zipper gets stuck half way up, but he expected that since it was broken in the first place. The cuffs are frayed, and he pulls them down over his fingers and fists his hands. It's going to be cold after the sun goes down.

A stick snaps somewhere behind him, and he glances back, already knowing what's made the noise.

Zero is there, huddled down in the underbrush just out of gun range. Michael sees him twitch when he notices he's being watched, and ease out of his crouch into a more lax stance, though even from this distance Michael see how tense he is.

He flashes an evil smile and lifts his finger, pointing at the hunter in a way reminscent of his gun. He cocks his thumb back.

"Bang."

* * *

**A/N: **More thanks to _Keenon _who is helping me so much with this. Without you, I'd probably be flailing around and helping Zero steal Darien's peelz. Review? Pleasepleasepleaseplease?

**A/N2: **Just incase you guys got an alert and were confused, I had to change a small detail in this chapter with the interstate, but it's fixed now :D sorry!


	3. Pain is just

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Three**

_Pain is just_

Hunter

* * *

He swallows wetly, having just finished making a meal out of a nest of baby slithers, and sits back on his haunches to lick his fingers of the last drops of blood. He's followed the man into a place where the buildings are small, smaller than he's ever seen them before. Brothers are closer than he is comfortable with, which confuses him because not too long ago the smell of brothers was almost a comforting smell, if not altogether welcome (because sometimes it meant food, other times it just meant a reason to let off some steam through tooth and claw).

The man is very tense and cautious as he walks, and he follows at a longer distance than before. The firestick seems even more deadly in the man's hands now with his frantic nerves and the smell of his fear is so palpable now that it's almost impossible not to scream and give into the sweet promises of a hunt.

Something hisses to him that the man would put up a fight, and if nothing else, a hunter relishes in the sweet rush of the chase.

The man crosses the street and glances over his shoulder, and he growls warily because he can feel the man's eyes burning into him like fire.

He snorts and turns away, jumping over a fence and leaping onto the low roofs-all the while his tawny eyes stay pinned on the man as he moves closer and closer to where the smell of brothers is the strongest.

_Mykillmine - Nobrothers._

He gets as close as he can without being in danger of the firestick, and then crouches down, growling under his breath. Already he can see brothers-and sisters, he can see sisters now-moving inside the dark of the building. The man keeps walking.

He snarls. Loud. Loud enough for the man to hear him and whip around, firestick raised and lips pulled back over his teeth in a grimace. When the man sees it's him, he jerks his firestick back down, irritated and shaken from his outburst.

Again, the man turns and makes his way to the dark opening of the building. Again, he snarls, a warning edge to it this time and he leans forward-_Nodarknodarkbrothersbad_.

The man whirls around and he can see his lips working in quiet words. He doesn't understand, but it doesn't matter because he wouldn't be able to hear him anyway.

A scream rips through the air.

The man is running before the cry is even finished, and he follows on the building tops, heart pounding and eyes flicking everywhere at once, trying to see the brother who had announced its sole intent of devouring every piece of flesh attainable.

There. The other hunter is already airborne, gracefully leaping through the air, claws outstretched, and gaining fast. In the blink of an eye, the hunter lands on the man hard and forces him to the ground with a shout of terror.

The scent of fear is so thick in the air he almost loses himself.

But then the other hunter lifts up on his knees and raises his claws. The man starts to struggle.

An uncontrollable rage rears up and grasps him by the neck, and he is flying off the roof with a vicious snarl before the other hunter can even dig his gruesome claws into the man's back.

There is one second where time seems to hesitate, where everything seems to be trying to move through thick glue, and he can see the bright, lethal eyes of the hunter as it slowly, so slowly, swipes down and slashes across the man's back. He sees the man arch, open his mouth, squeeze his eyes closed, and curl his fingers into the grit and gravel. Blood arches into the air in an almost graceful splash, staining the sky for only a moment before falling back to the ground and splattering like rain.

And then time speeds up again, and he hears himself screaming a violent, feral screech - drowning out the sudden terrified cries from the man as he is shredded by the beast's claws.

The other hunter barely raises his head before he collides with it, knocking it off the man and rolling over and over with it in an eruption of snarls and growls. The hunter bites into his shoulder and he howls and rolls, digging his claws into the other's chest, curling his fingers, and then tearing them out again.

The hunter cries out in pain, tries to get on top again, but he swipes it across the face and throat, growling so loud and deep and _angry _that the monster starts to shake beneath him even as he knows it feels the same rage building beneath its emaciated skin. In seconds they are rolling again, separating, circling, lunging and clashing again.

He feels clothing rip beneath his claws, hears his own being reduced to shreds, too, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't stop biting and slashing. Doesn't stop snarling and snapping. Doesn't stop, until the hunter is lying dead under him, finally still. Finally silent.

Only then does he back away and whimper under his breath as the wounds he sustained throb suddenly with a fierce intensity. His ankle hurts, _painpainpainrunpain_.

_Click_.

He stops breathing and flicks his eyes up, looking at the man slumped over on the road, pale and shaken, but a steady hand holds the firestick aimed at his chest. He shudders and carefully lays low on the hard asphalt and turns his face away, closing his eyes. His skin prickles fearfully, but exhaustion pulls him into a sense of half-awareness, and he hopes the man understands that he will not attack. That this is the only way he can show him that he is submitting.

For the moment.

_Pain...pain..._

There is the scritch of booted feet dragging across the concrete, and then he slips into darkness.

* * *

He wakes up in the same spot he lied down, but the man is gone, his scent faint, and there is a bottle of water next to his hand. Without hesitating, he picks it up and growls as he struggles once more with the cap.

The hunter's body is still sprawled out not far from him, stinking, but the offering of food is too great an opportunity to pass up so he drops the empty bottle and crawls to the corpse's side. It's jacket is beyond salvage, reduced to nothing but frayed edges and strips, and when he shifts, he realizes his is not much better off.

The only covering left on his arms are more or less what is held up by the duck tape, and even then the body of the jacket is destroyed. The wind picks up and he feels his flesh crawl at the chill.

With a soft growl, he bends and starts to feed, shivering lightly beneath what is left of his clothing.

* * *

His wounds have stopped bleeding, but he is still weak by the time he picks up the man's scent again. He follows it to an abandoned building, old and smelling of rot. He growls under his breath. The man's scent leaves behind a glaringly red barrier and he crawls away from it, irritated that he can't go further, and curls up behind a broken, shattered pillar of concrete.

He hears the man shifting inside, emitting low noises of pain, and without realizing, he hisses back in response, as if saying "I'm here and I'm in pain, too."

The man's noises pause, but then he hears him snort and he relaxes against the pillar. He sleeps heavily until morning, only waking once when a scraggly infected happens inside, but then slipping easily back into sleep once it wanders back out on its own.

He wakes before the man does, and drags himself up the side of the building. He crouches at the top, breathing heavily and whimpering in pain when his body aches from every scratch and bite received. He feels feverish and sluggish, as if he will drop straight back to the road if he even attempts leaping over the roofs.

He slumps sloppily into his crouch, panting and hissing weakly. Shakily, he crawls under a broken shelter-like structure and collapses on his side to rest, keeping his eyes open and senses on high alert.

Brothers and sisters are still close, and they know he's here, too. They will come, if he isn't careful, and they will do to him what he did to the dead brother now lying in bits and pieces on the road. They won't think twice about it, it's not in their nature. He understands.

He's the same.

* * *

It's afternoon before he moves again, and only then he does so because he can hear the man exiting the building. Otherwise, he knows he would have stayed there and slept for days and not moved an inch.

The man is walking stiffly, and he looks uncomfortable in his own skin. Through the man's thin t-shirt, he can smell blood, and he can see spots staining the worn fabric from his perch.

He doesn't feel the need to attack.

He snorts quietly and hops off the large metal skeleton, but his foot catches on a loose piece and he is sent sprawling to the asphalt with a sharp yelp. A soft noise alerts him, and he looks up from his messy crouch to see the man stopped in the middle of the road, lips pulled back over his lips in what he understands as a sneer. And he looks cruelly amused.

He snarls and bites at the air in irritation, angry and feeling put out. The man idly swings the firestick at his side before turning and making his way to another building.

He senses immediately the fear that rises and coats the man's skin when he ventures closer, and to his surprise, the man stops and looks over his shoulder at him once more.

He tenses and takes a cautious step back, a warning growl falls from his lips. The man glances back at the entrance of the building, and then back at him, and then back at the door again. He doesn't move.

After a moment of indecision, the man steps back and gestures with his hands to the door. Standing stiffly and frowning, but stinking of fear and a bit of anger, he dips his head and stares almost expectantly at him.

And finally he understands something about the man.

With a gentle hiss, he rises to his feet and leans forward, head tilted up and sniffing, tracking. Brothers are close, very close, but they are not in the building the man wishes to enter, and they are not aware of the man at all, only him, because if he can feel them, he knows they can feel his presence, too.

He drops to his hands and leans back into a more relaxed stance, turning his face away from the man. He watches the man from the corner of his eye beneath his hood, sees him nod and carefully step into the stomach of the dark building, sees him grip his firestick tighter and he thinks he can even see him shaking.

* * *

The man spends a long time inside the building, longer than he expected. When he finally does come back out, it takes a moment to realize that the man is _his _human, because his clothes and scent are different.

He growls and crawls a few steps closer, uncertain of the change. The man turns, as if he heard him, and just stares. For a stretch of time neither move, but then the man squats down and pulls off his bag, taking something out and leaving it on the ground.

When the man stands, he snorts and edges yet still closer, testing the air for any sign of danger - wondering if the man will pull out his firestick. He doesn't. The man turns and walks away.

He relaxes completely and sits back on his heels, confused and just little bit excited.

He waits until he can't see the man any longer before moving toward the bundle, gold eyes flickering around cautiously, watching.

_Foodsmellfoodeat?_ - He exhales heavily, excited, when he paws at the cloth covered package and feels fresh meat slick his claws. With a grunt he tears past sticky plastic and devours the raw, bloody meat inside. It's not warm and fresh from the bones, in fact, it tastes almost fake, _old_, but he doesn't stop eating. He doesn't stop until the last bit is swallowed.

When he's finished, he pushes the black foam container away and eyes the thick cloth it had been wrapped up in. He reaches out and swipes open-handed at the fabric, spreading it, and snorting in surprise when he sees it's _clothes._

Just as he is about to grab the articles, he stops and looks back up where the man had disappeared. He tastes change on the air, smells it like a fresh kill, and knows that by picking up the offering he will be accepting it.

He doesn't like it, and he almost leaves the clothing and turns away to flee for the first time in his life.

But then that something inside him gives a sharp tug. _Toofarcan'tseewhere?_

And he's shivering beneath his shredded jacket, eyes wide and scanning the road for the man, suddenly anxious that he can't see him. With a choked whimper he gathers the clothing in one arm and stumbles toward the nearest building, backs himself into a dark corner, and sheds his mutilated covering before slipping clumsily into the new, clean clothes.

* * *

It's well into night before he finds the man again, and he's disappointed to find he's behind one of those..._things _again. He makes a noise somewhere between a snarl and a pitiful whine as he settles back against a crumbling wall, his eyes locked onto the red, rusty barrier.

He hears the man shift and he lifts his head curiously, listening to the quiet footfalls that echo through the small barred opening. The man's face appears and he lifts himself into a low crouch, growling softly.

"What the hell do you want, anyway?"

He stiffens at the sound of the man's voice, but then relaxes again when it registers that the man doesn't sound _angry _so much as just tired and confused. And scared.

He snorts and lays back down on the concrete, watching the man from beneath his hood until his form disappears back into the shadows of the enclosure.

It's only when the dark is thick and silence even thicker, aside from the occasional faraway cry of brothers and sisters searching for fresh kills, that he gets up and crawls closer to the barrier and curls tightly next to it, muscles tense and instincts on high alert.

But he doesn't move, and eventually he falls into a light sleep.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks to _Keenon _who makes me want to write and keeps me motivated with constant insanity XD And a radioactive cookie to those who leave me reviews, you guys are badass.


	4. Don't you dare

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Four**

_Don't you dare_

Michael

* * *

Every muscle in his body seizes up and for a second, Michael's pretty damn sure he's about to die. Not just from being so fucking close to the hunter, but because his heart feels like it's stopped in his chest from the shock and fear and his lungs don't seem to be wanting to take in the precious - albeit _tainted _- air anymore.

He'd known of course that Zero was outside before he stepped out, he just didn't know that sometime during the night he'd moved _closer_ and had curled up right next to it, close enough for him to grab an ankle or leg and have a right good human breakfast.

Michael sees him shift, and it breaks the death grip of panic clutching at his insides. He kicks out like a strike of lightening, and if Zero wouldn't have already been shuffling back, it would have been a devastating blow to his head.

Instead, it catches him just under the jaw as he scrambles away, flipping him over on his back, and Michael internally rages as he reaches for his gun.

This is what he gets for all the times he was a jerk to his sisters and Ma. This is what he gets for disappointing and ignoring his dad even after the bastard left them all. This is what he gets for _surviving_.

"God_damn _it," he hisses and yanks back the hammer, holding it steady between both of his hands.

A savage growl erupts from the crouched form, and Michael's finger tenses on the trigger. He would have shot, was so _close _to shooting, but he's suddenly unable to.

The safety is on.

In the span of half a second, he realizes that by the time he clicks off the safety, it will be too late and he'll be dead. He sucks in a sharp breath and makes to run, to just fucking _run_, but a sharp snarl so full of primal hate is like a knife through his feet and he's floored. He's so goddamned scared he knows he'd piss himself if he could even manage _that _much movement.

He stares at Zero with something just past desperation, but not yet panic. Close. Very close. But not quite.

Zero's hood is thrown back. It's unsettling, Michael thinks, seeing him like that. Crouched and hostile like a wild animal, yet his features and build is that of a man. But there's blood on his face - staining his sharp teeth and smeared in angry strokes over his emaciated skin.

Michael feels like throwing up.

"_Noo_," he moans low in his throat - barely even moving his lips and feeling the fear crash against his fragile nerves like a battering ram. He's going to die. He's going to die and he'll never see Maggie again, never apologize for all the times he used her and Lacey's makeup as crayons or shaved Maggi's pet cat.

_O, God, Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils, that, by reason of the weakness of our nature, we cannot stand upright..._

He sees Zero's legs tense, readying to spring for his exposed throat.

_...grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome through Thine assistance. Through Christ our Lord._

Zero bares his teeth in a pained grimace and turns; he leaps away without looking back.

_Amen._

* * *

He's on the road again, leaving the desolate town of Midpoint behind. A new map he managed to scrounge up is held in his hands marked with the route, his Browning shoved in the back of his pants. His shotgun is slung over his shoulder, a familiar, welcomed, weight. He has shells for it now, probably enough to take on a whole horde if so inclined.

He hopes it doesn't come to that.

Zero still follows him, and Michael is more scared of the beast than frustrated, feeling like at any second he's going to feel those sickly sharp teeth sink into the back of his neck and knock him onto the concrete.

He shoots glances over his shoulder every few yards, watching as the dark reddish-brown hoodie he'd left behind for the thing pop in and out of view as Zero tails him, keeps him in sight.

It's hard to ignore, even harder to keep his eyes off of, but Michael pinches himself on the arm and forces himself to imitate all the Morse Code he can remember by tapping it against his thigh. When that fails to keep his attention, he recites short pieces from The Canterbury Tales, eventually making up his own parts for when he gets stuck.

He'd never bothered to memorize useless information before to keep his mind distracted, so it wasn't long before he is sighing angrily and stuffing the map back into his bag; even planning his next two weeks on the road couldn't hold his attention.

Michael growls and rakes his hands through his short, dirty hair, squeezing his eyes shut as he rips them back down and throws his head back with a ragged, "Fuck!" echoing from his lips.

Anger and fear eat at his insides, boiling like fire, and he feels like he's losing his damned mind. He is almost grateful when night creeps over the edge of the horizon and gives him an excuse to stop and lie down; gives him an excuse to do _something _besides walk and shoot paranoid looks over his shoulder at the hunter who hadn't backed off at all during the day.

The cars loom on each side of him, but he dares not go near one. He's learned what happens to people when they started up vehicles without knowing if the area's clear, Lawrence had witnessed the bloodshed with him. Just because he couldn't _see _the infected didn't mean they weren't around.

Zero is here, and that's reason enough to stay away.

And, besides, most of them are only there because the previous owners either ran out of gas on the run or were attacked and their disgusting, bloated corpses are now flopped over in the seats, waiting for nature to run it's course and reduce them to bones and eventually dust, or for some infected to happen by and chew the skin like jerky.

He ducks behind a patch of scraggly bushes like a few nights ago after doing a quick check of the area and uses his pack as a pillow. He doesn't eat, and he doesn't drink, mostly because he feels too keyed up (and a little disgusted) to do either. Instead he lies there and hopes to God Zero doesn't kill him.

He can hear him shuffling close by.

* * *

His body wakes up before his mind, his hands already curling around the familiar weight of his Browning and jerking it up into the air before he even opens his eyes.

When he does, however, he wishes he hadn't.

Michael's first instinct is to scream at seeing the crouched body at eye-level, so close he can feel body heat washing from the monster like a boiler stove. His second instinct is to pull the trigger, but Zero is suddenly springing off to the side with a strangled, whimpering growl, leaving Michael shaking like a leaf and sucking in air like a man half-drowned as a sense of terror he's never known before washes over him in one harsh drop.

The whole encounter lasted no longer than three, maybe five seconds, yet to Michael it seems much longer; like half a lifetime.

He doesn't sleep anymore that night, and when the sun finally crests over the Basin's edge, bringing a chilling breeze with it, he gets up, grabs his stuff, and sets off without looking for Zero.

He knows he's there; he knows he's still following him.

He can feel it in his blood, and suddenly the trip to this safe zone, this Wendover, has never felt so long and challenging.

Michael bites the inside of his bottom lip and wishes fiercely he had somehow managed to get his mother's Rosary all those months ago when the infection first hit. Even if he wasn't particularly religious, he couldn't deny that the feeling of the beads over his skin was reassuring in some small, infinitesimal, way.

He sighs and hefts his pack higher on his shoulders, not even bothering to eat. He knows he'll regret it later because one of the basic rules of survival is to actually _survive_, not purposefully starve to death. Still, he's too wired through with fear and spiking adrenaline to do much else than just keep moving.

It only gets worse as the days go on. With each passing mile, Michael can feel Zero getting closer and closer and closer until he knows the crunch of broken gravel isn't just coming from his own worn boots. But when he looks over his shoulder Zero isn't there, and he turns and keeps walking only to hear the return of soft steps shadowing him again.

He thinks he's going crazy. He thinks he's lost his mind.

But then he wakes up a week later and Zero is clutching at his jacket, sniffing his throat.

"Momma," he hears himself whisper, blood turning to ice and terror freezing his heart. "Oh, God, _Momma_."

He feels Zero stiffen, and instead of moving away the beast moves in even closer, shifting in his crouch until he is curled almost against Michael's side, leaning over him.

He can't get to his guns; he can't move.

More than anything Michael just wants to roll over and die because he can't stand this. He can't stand being the mouse toyed with right before the cat finally extends its claws and snatches him up. Forget surviving and being safe, if this is what it takes, he gladly admits he's weak and a coward - someone just _save him_.

Zero breathes out a whimper against his cold skin, and Michael screams a silent, desperate plead to the dark sky.

He gets no answer.

Neither move and Michael feels his heart skip beats with every puff of hot air against his clammy skin until it feels like he's not getting enough blood, not getting enough air, until it feels like he's heart is going to burst from the strain.

He opens his mouth and a sob breaks like glass around them.

The beast lifts his head and looks at Michael with inhumanly bright, golden eyes, horrific set against the black and red of infection, and somehow Michael imagines he can see his reflection in their depths, a scared man curled and begging for death.

_What do you want from me?_

He wishes he could talk.

* * *

The next morning Zero is gone, having finally slinked off sometime during the long, torturous night to leave Michael sprawled in the dirt, pathetic and weak.

He gets up, forces himself to eat one of the shitty dry fruit bars he scrounged from Midpoint and washes it down with some water before he pulls out his map. For sentimental reasons he kept his old one even after replacing it, stuffing it into a small pocket on the side of his pack. It's the only piece of Lawrence he has to remember, even if it isn't much at all.

He has nothing to remember his sister by except his memory.

Just for something to do he crouches and takes out his pen. He retraces the route, going over it so many times it bumps out in the back and almost tears through the paper. He repeats street names under his breath, memorizing Wendover as best he can, because once he gets there, he won't be able to pull his map out every five seconds for directions if zombies are crawling the streets. He has to know where he's going, how long it's going to take to take there, and how fast he needs to move.

When he's finished he carefully slips it back into the zip lock bag and sticks it underneath the two changes of clothes he'd taken from the clothing store. It would have been three...but he'd left them behind in moment of poor judgment.

With a grunt he stands and checks his ammo, patting his sidearm for reassurance and swinging up his shotgun over his shoulder, freezing immediately when his eyes lock on the crouched form not three yards from him.

Zero watches him for a moment, stiff as marble, before slinking forward impossibly slow and stretching his hand out, his dirty claws uncurling and dropping something to the ground. Michael makes no move other than to swallow, his throat dry like cotton.

When Zero turns and leaps off, the echo of a wary growl drifting almost silently in the space that he'd occupied, Michael walks over and looks for what he left.

He doesn't see anything at first, and has to squat down and brush away some sand before the sun glints off the dull surface of a piece of metal.

It's a small copper washer, caked over with grime and mud and dust and looks like at any second it will crack and break. Without giving it much thought he stands and puts it in his pocket. He turns and heads for the asphalt, preparing himself for another long day of walking.

The wind whistles past and he fists his hands in his sleeves of his jacket, a flash of worry over the weather taking the forefront of his mind as he steps onto the cracked asphalt.

He doesn't know what he will do once the temperature drops low enough to where he won't be able to survive it without catching hypothermia. He doesn't have the supplies to care for himself if he does.

One week lies between him and Maggie. Just one. But one week can hold a lot of secrets, one mystery of which is the Nevada seasons.

Suddenly, surviving is all Michael can think about.

* * *

_Crack! Crack! Crackcrackcrack!_

Michael bares his teeth and presses his back against the skeleton of a car, the stink of hot metal and gunpowder and infected blood twisting his stomach unpleasantly and surrounding him, becoming the only thing in the world available to breathe in.

Three of them. There were _three _of them.

Two were dropped, the last one staggering at him like a drunk, hit once in the stomach but too focused on ripping and tearing Michael apart, too distracted by the thought of flesh satiating its undeniable hunger to even register the wound.

It sprints at him abruptly with a shriek, hands outstretched and eyes glassy, spit and blood flying from it's disgusting jaws. The cry rips through him like a bullet.

_Crackcrackcrack-_

He keeps shooting even after it's dead, his finger unable to move from the trigger even though he thinks he might be choking on the stench and his hand burning from the hot steel clutched too tightly in his grip. He stops only after the 'click' of an empty chamber cuts off the blasts.

"Shit..._shit_!"

He turns and starts running. Sounds. He's compromised his position. They'll come at him now, and he just wasted ammo. Why the _fuck _didn't he just blast their heads off and leave it alone? As he runs he struggles keeping his shotgun over his shoulder and reaches into his pack for bullets, reloading and stumbling uncertainly over the road.

He hears an unholy scream, recognizes it with a thrill of fear and excitement, and tries looking over his shoulder as he sprints. He can see Zero jumping from the tops of cars and taking down the few infected still wandering around, having heard the gunfire and following after his scent.

Michael pants and jerks his head back around, ducking around cars and covering himself from back to front, left to right, his gun pointed out in front of him like a sensor.

Behind him, Zero's shriek, the one that sings of the kill, pierces his ears and he swallows. He knows just how easily he could be the one under the monster, his insides getting shredded and thrown around like some disgusting parody of confetti.

As he runs, his pocket feels heavy.

* * *

**A/N: **Took longer than I expected to get this out...my bad. 'Course it would have been longer had _Keenon _not been the best Dick Buddy ever and helped me :3


	5. It's not what

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Five**

_It's not what_

Zero

* * *

He snorts quietly, tenses as the man turns around, but crawls forward when there is no immediate action to harm him for venturing close again. Just like the past few nights, the man has allowed him to come near without pulling out his firestick and letting the unspoken threat (promise) of death to crackle like hisses between them.

Instead, the man will just look at him, sit down, and hold the firestick in his lap. Sometimes he will even reach into his sack and roll the crackly bottle to him so he can drink.

It doesn't happen often. Mostly, the man will just watch him intensely, as if he thinks that if he took his eyes off for one second he would die by sharp claws and jagged rows of teeth. The thought isn't that far from the truth.

He isn't allowed to get too close. If he does, the telltale 'click' of the firestick readying to shoot shatters the silence and the man's eyes turn cold and brittle, like a brother's when they snarl and spit over a kill.

He can smell his fear, but mixed with it is something blistering and dangerous. His mind doesn't understand that this is anger. Hate. Desperation. He just knows it's there and he's learned to identify the man with it. He's learned not to do anything that will make that scent sharper, because it usually brings _painpainpain _by the wrist as company.

Sometimes, though, he can't help but get a little closer because the man smells of fresh blood and he's just so _hungrystarvingfoodnowhere_. He salivates just from being in his presence, instincts screaming at him to lunge and bite, snap, claw, pin, rip, tear, and _claim_...

"Back the fuck up," The man is on his feet, firestick trained on him. He didn't know he'd moved too close. With a hissing whine he scrambles back quickly, body low to the ground and defensive and eyes pinned on the barrel of the stinking metal.

The man has his teeth bared, too, and the sight shoots an almost foreign craving through his system, pooling in a ball of heat at the base of his spine. He chokes out a whimper and tries to shake it off, but it doesn't fade for a quite some time. Not until the man drops his snarl and sits back down.

With an almost relieved sound, he falls back on the balls of his feet and sucks in a few sharp breaths, the heat spreading slowly, sinking away, leaving him breathless. He feels like he's just missed a jump, tumbled from the sky and smacked the dusty earth, driving the air in his lungs out in one single harsh blow.

He refuses to meet the man's eye.

* * *

The next morning, the familiar itch of seeking a hunt eats away at him until he can't stand it any longer. The man doesn't seem to care when he jumps off, though he notices he holds the firestick a little tighter and his steps, even from the distance, are visibly stiff and even more cautious than usual.

He grunts and turns, tensing his legs beneath him like a spring and then releasing, leaping high into the air again, eyes bright and wild as they search for a kill.

He's far enough away from the man that he can barely trace his scent, having followed the trail of a scraggly looking animal. It's fur is patched and its ribs stick out pathetically. He feels nothing for it, only a rage fueled by his hunger.

The small beast is dead before he even touches it, having heard the bloodcurdling shriek and seen him barreling down on it without hesitation. Its frail heart suddenly overpowered by adrenaline, bursting in its chest and killing it with little to no pain.

He eats, and feels a deep feeling of disappointment when it only satisfies for the moment. He licks his lips and swallows thickly, frowning down at the stained, fragile bones with a very put upon expression.

What he wants, what he truly wants, is to find a human. One that will run and scream almost as loud as he will, one that will surge his own instincts to the breaking point, one that will give such a thrill to the chase that it's almost unbearable. Because when it's like that he feels more alive than the victim, and once he bites into the flesh he can be completely unchained.

The deliriousness of the attack, painting the sky red and flinging sweet candy-organs up into the air is an addiction that is so ingrained into his infected mind he refuses to give it up. It's strong and compelling, something that feels necessary to survival.

And suddenly not being able to go through with it as often as he wants is crippling his nerves; grating on the last shred of sanity that allows him to _think_, that allows him to follow the man without balking and shredding him to pieces.

He growls threateningly at nothing and turns, sick of being still. Without sparing the little tangles of fur and gnarled bones a second glance, he crouches low and leaps; nose sniffing and eyes searching.

Something flashes warningly in the back of his head and it doesn't click until he lands and jumps again that he's smelling an infected's scent on the breeze. Blood roars in his ears as he starts running at a speed only capable by creatures of his kind.

_Fasterfaster__**faster**_...

* * *

The man is hurt.

He can smell the blood; can taste the bitterly sweet tang on his tongue on the air.

He growls and stiffens, claws digging into the ground as the grains of sand give easily under his fingers. He wants to feed, hasn't had the delicious taste of human flesh in so long his stomach clenches and twists in on itself at the thought; his previous meal already forgotten. _EateatattacknownowNOW_.

His breath escapes between his teeth in a low hiss as he creeps forward, eyes pinned on the sprawled form of the man; locked on the seeping gash on the side of his head.

_Soclose...almost..._

Clouded eyes roll and stare at him, blank and unfocused, but still watching. He freezes, automatically expecting the firestick to rear its ugly head and claw through him; instead the man just breathes in a rattling breath and closes his eyes. A few seconds pass before he opens them again slowly, almost like it's an effort to do so.

His lips move but no sounds come out. The man can't speak.

He pulls himself over the dusty ground in a sloppy crawl, suddenly so irrationally angry and _scared _that his thoughts are even more confused and distorted than usual. When he's close enough the man flinches and makes a noise in the back of his throat, one he recognizes as fear.

The man's hand fumbles with his clothes, and for a moment he believes the firestick really _is _going to hurt him.

But then the man's hand opens and he's holding the shiny. The shiny he had found before and left behind for the man; the dusty little circle he hoped would somehow make it to where the firestick wouldn't harm him. Back in the city, giving a gift to the older brothers would buy you reprieve.

If it was something rare, they would only scratch you a little. If not, they would bite and claw and, if they felt like it, make you their meal while you were still alive.

He'd seen it happen, had been on the receiving end of some brutal attacks himself, but he'd always managed to get away in the end.

And now the man was holding out his shiny as if he were offering it back.

He growls softly, not understanding, and the man flinches again. His hand tightens on the shiny in a loose fist.

"Don't," the man mutters thickly. He doesn't understand and he feels frustrated all over again. Leaning forward, he paws at the man's chest and whimpers under his breath. He's not hungry anymore - he's confused. And irritated and angry and scared and he seethes inside at the dead, stupid brothers and sisters littering the dirt around the man.

Suddenly it's like he can feel every cut or scrape or bite and scratch he'd received over his time in the human's company. Suddenly it's like they are burning white-hot and closing off his throat, wanting to kill him. He doesn't like it, he fears it, and he wants it to stop.

But the man's eyes are staring at nothing now, curiously blank and glassy, and the aches _won't _stop.

* * *

He leaves, eventually.

To find something to tear apart, something to kill; he doesn't eat, just leaves the corpses there to rot. He's numb. He doesn't think, doesn't try to comprehend what's happening, he just does. He goes and he slashes anything that comes across his path; his claws are stained black by dirt and blood by the time he collapses next to the man's body again.

The night is silent and cold, and he huddles in on himself - shivering. He breathes out a small whine, unable to bring himself to leave for good. Instinct, for once, is not battling him. Instead it is keeping him rooted to the spot, a soft whisper of _notyetnotyet_ hissing in his ears.

He can't understand it, not sure if he _wants _to, even. So he just listens to it, allows it to lull him into a half-aware state in which he can smell the man's scent; cool sweat and dust. Tilting his head, he watches the barely-there rise and fall of the man's chest.

He doesn't know if the man will live - his scent is thick with pain and the threat of death.

Another cutting wind slices through his clothes and he shivers once, violently. His eyes stay locked onto the man's closed off face, lips and pallor practically void of colour. With a glance around, tense and ready, he shuffles forward into the curve of the man's side.

When there is no reaction, no pain, he relaxes, remembers the man is almost dead, and curls into a tight ball. After a moment he rests his head on the man's chest and digs his hands into the thick jacket the man wears - minding his claws - and holds his breath. Listening. Feeling.

The heartbeat is there, barely, but it's there. Fluttering too fast, like a birds' wings when fight or flight kicks in. He opens his eyes to watch the man's face. Sweat soaks his temples and makes his hair stick to the sides of his face.

After a time he lets his eyes droop closed, soaking in as much of the man's warmth as he can and turning his head to bury his nose into the man's stomach. He shifts, draping himself like a sort of blanket across the lean body and sucking in deep breaths. Instead of feeling hunger salivate his gums like he expected, that craving, that rising _desire _balloons up inside him with each inhale.

It's warmth spreads electric shivers down his spine and he whines quietly, pressing his face harder into the man's belly. He feels numb again, only this time it's a more lethargic feeling with an edge of blasting energy. He wants to sleep, but at the same time he feels like he could jump forever and never get tired.

He's breathing harder and clutching desperately to the man, unable to find stable ground in his suddenly muddled and hazed world. It's only when the man moves slightly that he realizes his claws are digging into skin and drawing blood.

Slowly he pulls his claws away and tucks them under his chest, fisting into his own clothes and holding tightly. He squeezes his eyes shut and allows the man's scent to completely desensitize him, lets it dull him into a light doze where he's so aware of every breath drawn in and out of the man's lungs he can almost hear the blood rushing through exhausted veins.

* * *

The next morning he blinks his eyes open and immediately turns his face to the man, a little surprised that he was allowed to stay in the same position. No pain rips through his bones. Not Yet. He sucks in a hiss when he sees the man's eyes are open and looking at him.

He stiffens, muscles jerking beneath the skin. The man doesn't move, doesn't open his mouth to yell things he doesn't understand; he just slowly turns his head and looks out at the landscape with vacant eyes.

Something tells him that the man doesn't even know where he is.

He growls curiously and rises into a crouch, still pressed up against the man's side. The man turns his face back and looks at him again, only this time his eyes are clear and not blankly reflective like water.

"You're fucking stupid," the man rasps, and of course he doesn't understand it but he tries to look as if he does. He can vaguely recognize one of the words but it sounds different, and so he lets it go, unwilling to dwell on it too long lest the man bring _painpainpain_.

The lean body jerks suddenly beneath him and he unconsciously hisses a sharp warning - cutting it off quickly when he realizes what he's just done. The man's eyes snap to him, unreadable, but the tension that tightens the edges of his mouth is easy to see.

The man says something else and then shifts again, snatching his arms up and away from sharp claws. He pushes himself into a sitting position, grimacing from what can only be intense pain, and reaches out for his bag.

He snorts hopefully and waits, waits to see if the man is feeling generous. When the man pulls out the bottle he emits another low noise and bends forward eagerly. The man hands it to him wordlessly and watches as he bites the plastic, as is his habit, before struggling it open and drinking.

"This is just impossible. Do you even know what you're doing? Does it even register in that infected brain of yours?"

He lets the empty bottle fall from his grasp, feels water slosh down his chin and onto his chest. He mourns the liquid for a moment, staring down his front with genuine remorse, before looking back up at the man blankly.

His voice is harsh and sharp, and he knows that it angers the man that he can't understand, but there is nothing he can do. The babble of sound is just that; noise. Nothing more.

He watches the man turn to his bag and pull out another bottle and a small box with wrappings. Water is poured carefully over cloth and he cleans the wound before taping thin strips over it.

He stays silent and watchful for a moment and then picks his empty bottle back up. After staring at it quietly, contemplative, he crawls forward awkwardly and offers it up to the man.

Cold eyes flick down to the offered bottle and back up to his face before the man slowly reaches out and takes it back. He mutters something as he puts the bottle in his bag and, almost uncertainly, gropes around in the dirt and picks up the shiny.

The man shoots a glance at him over the faded copper piece before purposefully slipping it back in his pocket and turning back to his pack. This time when the man stumbles to his feet, murmuring in a fevered haze of pain as he walks, he doesn't kick or shout or take out his firestick. Instead he just keeps his eyes pinned in front of them and doesn't look down at him at all.

He growls a question but follows after the man's confused shuffling gait warily, sensing again that the man doesn't know where he is. He shoots a last look at the strewn bodies of brothers and sisters behind them and feels a heavy sense of dread settle in his stomach.

He growls again, this time with more warning, and sweeps his gaze over the expanse of road and sand. He can smell the change in the air, the cold indifference that feels like a physical weight settling over him and he wonders what is waiting for them past the point where his sharp eyes cannot see.

* * *

**A/N: **...Ugh...just, ugh. All I can say is "Well, fuck, I tried." Kenzie :( it fails.


	6. Where we burn

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Six**

_Where we burn_

Michael

* * *

He barely skirts around a truck parked haphazardly in the road.

One step. Two steps. Six steps. A mile. Three...?

He looks up, again, and his surprised that his surroundings are different, again, and scared, again, that he can't remember how he got here. His head hurts, despite what he's taken to numb the pain. Sometimes, though, it doesn't hurt, nothing hurts, and he can't even _think _because of the nothing.

He forgets his train of thought and blanks out, only to suddenly blink his eyes and remember on down the road when his feet have carried him so far - he can't ignore the fact that something is seriously wrong with him anymore. He doesn't want to admit it because what if it means he's dying? He doesn't want to die -

- His eyes snap open - when had they closed? - and he's further down the highway. If he looks over his shoulder, he can clearly see the blocky, forlorn looking Chevrolet that he almost bumped into disappearing from his sight.

At his leg, Zero makes a noise and he rolls his head to look down at him, a little unsettled by the fact that he hadn't even realized he was there. The crouched figure only stares up at him blankly before crawling forward and looking back at him over his shoulder.

Without a word, Michael shuffles forward after him.

* * *

He sees the sky rolling, purple and black and red.

And then he wonders why everything looks like it's suddenly void of colour.

* * *

He doesn't notice it's raining until he's already soaked and shivering, teeth clacking together loudly and Zero's keening moan rises above the roar of rain and thunder.

He looks down, wanting to tell the stupid monster to just shut up. He can't. It's like the words don't exist, have no meaning, like they aren't real. He can't voice them; his tongue presses against the back of his teeth uselessly, ready to form words he can't think of.

Michael blinks, frowns, starts walking faster and shaking his head.

* * *

The paint is faded and blistered in places, giving the green Xterra an old, authentic look. Michael doesn't care, just as long as it provides shelter from the storm. He remembers for a split second hot wiring a car and attracting the unwanted attention of some wandering zombies, and then it's gone; he lightly touches the soaked, soiled bandage on his head and grimaces.

It's almost enough to make him turn away and keep walking, but then his body is assaulted by violent shivers and he sucks it up, jerks open the door (scans it for bodies) and crawls in. It smells musty and the air inside is damp. The back seat is gone, completely ripped off its bolts and screws leaving a big, gaping space.

He turns and grabs the door, sparing a glance at the huddled shivering figure crouched next to the tire. In a moment of pure lucidity, he slams the door shut and shuffles his way over to the far side. Common sense doesn't abandon him just yet, and he immediately strips his wet clothes and digs through his bag for the spare he'd packed.

He can't think of the name for what he could catch, it's lost somewhere in his damaged brain, but he knows if he doesn't get dry clothes on, the consequences could be death. Like a lot of things seemed to be as of late.

The pants are hard to pull over his wet legs, but once he zips them up and flops back, he can only struggle with the long-sleeved shirt before giving up - too exhausted to bother with it. He blanks out there on his back with a pounding headache and trembling bones.

* * *

When he was younger, Michael used to enjoy playing in the rain. Lacey did, too, sometimes, but only if Maggie would play with her. Michael played by himself out behind the house by the woodpile until Pike, his childhood friend, came around. But that was a bitterly-happy chapter in life he didn't like to think about.

The sound of rain pounding on the roof would get him excited and he'd race outside just to sprint through it. There wasn't a time that he can remember _not_ going out in the rain, even more rare was to see him wearing a jacket in the storms because he liked the feel of the water so much - even if later he got sick because of it.

But sitting there with his back against the driver's seat, he can't recall those times. He can only feel the impressions, the ghosts of those memories floating teasingly just out of reach. It doesn't bother him as much as he knows it should, because he can't even remember why it should in the first place.

"_Sleep - pretty baby - do not cry, and I'll sing you a lullaby..._" he hums, blinking stupidly at the broken interior light above his head. "Something something something - _and I will sing a lullaby_."

He sighs, knows his sisters sang it to him, and suddenly wishes they were there to make the pain go away. Any familiar face, really.

Maybe it was that craving for company, to share his suffering with someone and the fog that had settled over his head, that pushes Michael into a crawl to the door and throws it open. It's pouring rain outside and for once he doesn't want to go running out in it. Instead he sits there for a moment, watching it, listening to the rumbling of thunder and the flashing of lightening.

And then he lays flat on his stomach and peeks under the edge of the van. He can see the blackish outline of Zero's huddled body about an arm's length away and, as if sensing his presence, the body shifts and his head lifts. Even in the pitch black of night with shadows of the van's underbelly making it that much more impenetrable, viciously golden eyes glitter brightly out at Michael.

He stares for a moment before saying, "Bet you're cold."

Zero flinches. Michael makes a face and shakes his head, causing water to fly off of him in arcs and some of it gets into his eyes. Suddenly annoyed, he snaps, "Well, get the fuck in here then, stupid," and abruptly moves back into the van, shivering slightly because he still hasn't put on a shirt.

At first he doesn't think the little monster will come, and a part of him sighs in relief, but as he's digging through his things for a sweater he hears the sharp rasp of hissing breaths and a claw slowly curls against the edge of the floor.

"Are you just going to stand out there in the...the..." he scowls and jerks out a thick hoodie, pissed that he can't think of the word for falling water even though it's on the tip of his tongue and he knows he was thinking of it not two minutes before.

As he yanks it over his head, he hears scuffling and a snort of discontent. Pulling the sleeves over his thumbs, he rocks back on his heels and sits cross legged, staring across at Zero who is now pressing himself into the farthest corner by the trunk latch.

For once, Michael doesn't taste the fear on the back of his tongue. The fog makes it hard to distinguish past the recklessness that he feels. He reaches forward and pulls the door in - leaving it propped open so fresh air can still circulate without the rain getting in.

"You're going to die, you know that? From hypothermia." He allows himself a moment to bask in the triumph of getting that word. "I can see you shaking like a little girl from here."

The sound of his voice has an affect on Zero. Michael watches him slowly lower himself to the floor in a loose ball, keeping his eyes pinned on him warily, warningly. Michael sneers.

Acting on impulse, Michael shifts to his hands and knees and inches forward. There is only about four feet between them, and the space is quickly diminished. He can see Zero pressing himself against the car's side futilely and it makes him bark a laugh.

Zero snarls sharply, almost like he's ashamed at being laughed at, and Michael only shows his teeth in retaliation; it seemed to have worked once before, and this time it isn't any different. The beast immediately shuts up and hisses angrily under his breath.

When he's close enough to feel the cold radiating off him, Michael sits back on his legs and watches him. Lips curl over sharp incisors uncertainly and Michael only chuckles.

"You look like a goddamned demon, you know that? Like one of those...with the wings? Never mind." He can't remember the name, all he knows is that his mother would just about have a fit if she saw him and fling holy water around like a spewing fountain.

The beast merely snorts and angles his head away; Michael can still see those flashing eyes staring at him from beneath the soaked, dripping hood. The fog descends thickly and without giving it much thought, Michael reaches forward.

A warning growl erupts threateningly from the huddled form before him and Michael snaps a quick, "Shut up" before tugging the hood off a head of dirty, matted brown hair. Zero hisses sharply and jerks his head back so fast it smacks the trunk door.

"God, what are you, retarded?" Michael shifts closer still, until his knees are almost touching Zero's elbow. Unthinkingly, he grabs for the zipper, stopping immediately when Zero swings his head around, lips barely a millimeter away from the sensitive flesh of Michael's wrist, and a warning snarl rumbles from deep within his chest.

For a fleeting moment, just one second of clarity, Michael understands what he's doing and knows how dangerous it is. Knows that one bite could possibly kill him, infect him, end him. But the fog is too strong and gently rocks him back into the gray where nothing really makes sense.

The zipper comes down easily enough, catching only once on the jagged, worn teeth and fabric of the coat. "See?" he says, rocking back on his heels. "And you were throwing a fit just for that."

Zero is visibly trembling and for some reason Michael likes that. Likes that he's as submissive as a blind, newborn pup. He leans back and digs through his bag for some kind of shirt, anything that can provide heat. All he finds is an old threadbare T-shirt that he's pretty much worn to the seams. He shrugs, it's not like he's the one having to wear it.

"Here, take that off and put this on." He holds out the shirt and shakes it. Zero flinches and glares from under his dirty fringe. "Jesus, you want me to do it for you? _Off_," he stresses the last word, tugging at the bottom of his own hoodie for emphasis.

He can see Zero hesitating, tensing up, but then he slowly, too slowly for something that strikes quicker than a snake - and the sight is unsettling enough because a predator moving so slow is reason enough for panic - lifts one clawed hand and grasps the jacket's lapel. Michael nods and the huddled beast pushes it from his body and immediately starts growling, low and dangerous as if Michael were the one to remove it from his body.

Michael tosses the shirt in front of him only to have it stared at with confused, angry eyes.

"...You put it on. Over your head. It's not that hard."

Zero merely snarls at him and turns his head away, curling in on himself even more. His soaked jeans don't give much for the movement and Michael winces, knowing it's uncomfortable. But then he sneers because it's the monster's own damn fault.

"Alright, freeze then. But you're going to want it pretty soon," he mocks and leans against the driver's seat, eyeing Zero haughtily with a smirk.

It's when he starts to drift in and out of sleep that he hears what sounds like a heavy sigh and a thumping. When he blinks his eyes open, Zero is struggling with the shirt, biting it and pulling at it uncertainly with his sharp claws.

Michael snorts and Zero's failed attempts at pulling the shirt on freeze. Ochre eyes flick up to him warily, and just a bit angrily, as Michael shuffles forward.

"So, you can manage to zip up a damn jacket and duck tape the sleeves, but you can't manage putting on a shirt? How the hell did you manage to survive this long?"

His only answer is an agitated glare and defiantly curling lips. He meets no resistance when he forcefully tugs the shirt over Zero's head and down his heaving chest. The only unsettling thing that registers is the scars that litter the beast's chest and stomach. Even on his face is an 'X' looking gash; all of them brutal and jagged and cringe-worthy eyesores.

Michael impulsively grabs Zero's chin and jerks his head to the side so he can see the scar better, surprised at the shape. Even in his current mind-state, he knows that no teeth or claw can make that kind of cut. And it looks fairly old; already healed and cleaner than the rest - not threatened by infection.

"Guess you _were _human once," he mutters, dropping his hand and scooting back. He frowns when Zero doesn't immediately retaliate - he doesn't even hiss at having been touched. Instead, Michael notes, his eyes stay pinned to floor, widened as if in shock, and his shoulders rise and fall rapidly with quickly drawn breaths. He doesn't make a sound.

And then he's moving. Slowly, like a damned fox slinking right under a hound's nose, and Michael leans back when he gets close - too close. Golden eyes are unfocused, and Michael thinks, lucidly past the thick confusion swirling in his head, that Zero is going to kill him.

"Get the fuck away," he chokes, bringing his arms up to protect his face, jerking back to get his gun. Where the hell did he put it? "I said, get the fuck _away_!" He swipes out an arm and lunges to the side for his bag. Zero ducks, wrapping his arms around Michael's middle, and curls his body tightly against him.

The shock registers first, and then the fear and anger rear quickly after. Michael's twisting and yelling, the fog suddenly so thick in his head he's not even aware of anything anymore besides the consuming need to survive. Just survive.

He stills when something hot and wet presses against the side of his face. Belatedly, he realizes Zero's shirt is ripped wide open, hanging onto his shoulders like rags and his wet pants are soaking into his own jeans. The beast clutched against him whimpers a broken, desperate kind of noise and Michael swallows. He's being licked.

Zero digs his claws tighter into Michael's hoodie before licking him again on the cheek, leaving a cool trail of saliva in his wake. Michael is too stunned to do more than sit there and stare at the side of his face; too confused to make head or tail of the thoughts shooting through his head.

"S-Stuh...Stop. Stop, stop!" he chokes, grabbing Zero's shoulders roughly when he drops his head to Michael's throat. The seat at Michael's back keeps him from moving away and he's backed solidly into a tight corner. Trapped.

_God, please_, he prays. _Please! I can't - _

Zero makes a sound that can only be described as a _purr_, rubbing his body against Michael's in an odd, distracted kind of way as if he's following instinct rather than any real coherent thought; licking gently at his neck. It dawns on Michael that the pressure against his hip isn't a knee; but physical proof of Zero's excitement. His breath whooshes out of his lungs like he's been punched - suddenly so disoriented he thinks he's going to be sick.

Thunder bangs outside as the rain picks up, breaking the trance over Zero as he flinches violently and freezes against Michael; he rips himself away as if burned. Michael only stares silently, wide-eyed and in disbelief. Zero trembles and emits a low, frightened moan. Another bang, and suddenly he is crawling sloppily, tripping over his own hands and feet, out of the open door of the car and smacking down onto the slick pavement.

* * *

**A/N: **(flails, hits the floor) FINALLY! I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO DAMN LONG I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. If it wasn't for _Keenon_'s bribing...this chapter would most likely still be forgotten under the dust. Review and I promise it won't happen again!

Also, sidenote, a twist in the next chapter.


	7. Bite the hand

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Seven**

_Bite the hand_

Zero

* * *

He snarls to himself as he staggers uncertainly over the slippery road, already shaking from the cold but refusing to go anywhere near the man again. He can still smell him, the scent thick and heady, musky with blood and sweat and rain and warmth. It burns his sensitive nose and he snorts, suddenly jerking to a stop and raising his claws to tear at his skin.

_Nonono. Badsmellcan'tbreathe._

A hollow banging scrape erupts close by and he drops to his stomach. His lips pull back in a silent snarl of warning. It's not the sky this time and he can sense it; humans. More than one. _And so close._

It's not _his_ human this time. These are different, almost lighter in comparison. He can still breathe with their scents riding on the air instead of choking and seeking more of it. He can _think_. Therefore, he can kill.

His stomach clenches in anticipation; when was the last time there was food? Too long. He's salivating before he even makes a move forward, suddenly starving and _craving _the human flesh so close to him. Practically in his claws already.

He inches forward, eyes darting around frantically and trying to spot movement past the mist. The rain has finally stopped, leaving an unnatural stillness quivering over the desert but making it easier to see. _There_.

A pair of feet are standing just a short distance away, the human's weight evenly balanced on the heels like they are ready to flee. He pants, knows he won't give them the opportunity to run. Instinct alone overrides all else and a feral scream rips from his throat. He launches at the human excitedly, wildly, anticipating the high of a kill.

When he lands, he purposefully pulls up short and snarls. His teeth gnash together happily, biting at the air around the human's legs. The human - a man, younger, it seems, than his own human - gasps out and rapidly sucks back in air. He screams and backpedals away quickly, visibly stricken by the inhumanly quick strike.

He crouches low and growls, readying for the final jump. To finish it. But suddenly there is the heavy pounding of feet and a voice shouting angrily, this one not belonging to his human, either. He hisses and draws back. One he can take down, but two...No, he can already smell the metal of the firestick. He shakes from how badly he wants the kill, but he is not so far gone as to believe he can evade the firestick's sights.

"Bren? What's wro-"

He twists to escape. The second human shouts again, louder. Scared now. The firestick shatters the stillness of the air with a loud CRACK and he yelps. He falls to the side, scrambling to get away, wanting suddenly to crawl back to his human and just hide...

_Scent. Hisscent...here?_

There is a blur of motion and he jerks away, hitting the pavement hard once more. He quickly rights himself and whips around, looking up at the figure hunched in front of him.

"What the _fuck _do you think you're doing?" It's his human; angry and bristling like the lightening. Only now it seems more alive, dangerous in it's own right. He is not surprised to find himself instinctively cowering behind the man's legs and staring up at him. His eyes are narrowed, still distant, but focused on the strangers in front of him.

"Answer me! What the _fuck do you think you're doing_?" There is barely a heartbeat after his human's yell before his fist is cracking against the second man's mouth, violently knocking him back.

The scent of blood immediately coats his tongue and he whines pathetically-but he dares not move from his spot. Not yet.

* * *

Michael

"What the hell is your problem?"

Michael jerks his head around to the first guy. He's smaller than Michael, redheaded and obviously scared and pissed off. He can take him. It's the other one, the brunette pushing himself up and away from Zero, that will be a problem. Michael sneers at him and takes a threatening step toward him again, only to pull up short when a fist slams into his jaw and jerks his head sharply to the right.

"Fucking_shit_ - "

"Bren!"

"He's one of them! Is he one of them?"

He hears Zero growl loudly and hisses at him to keep quiet. The redhead, Michael thinks his name is Bren, is staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Surprisingly, he's glaring and ready to punch Michael again. Where the _hell _had these people come from?

"Mark? Camp? What's going - Oh, my _God_!"

Michael whips his head around and takes a step back. A woman is standing next to the bigger guy, stunned and staring right back at him. He watches her eyes flick down to the beast at his feet and widen even more.

"Is that...?"

The brunette tightens his hold on his gun. "Yes," and then to Michael, "Who are you?"

Michael clenches his jaw shut, ignoring the dull throb, and curls his hands into fists. Zero snarls quietly but stops when hit with the heel of Michael's boot.

"Mark, is he changing?" The girl asks, and Michael scoffs loudly.

"I'm not infected if that's what you're wondering, you assholes," he snaps.

"Then why the fuck did you hit Mark!" The redhead is seething; Michael can almost imagine he's being butchered by that gaze.

He shakes his head roughly and squeezes his eyes shut. "Who the fuck is Mark?"

"The guy you just punched, damn it!"

"Camp, stop yelling..." When Michael opens his eyes, the girl is staring at Zero still. He glances at all of them and stiffens even more. Their eyes are pinned on the monster; the first guy, Mark, his hand is clutched even more tightly around his gun.

His head hurts. "He's not going to attack, alright? Shit."

"...What do you mean, 'he's not going to attack'? He tried to _bite _me!" Bren. That one's Bren.

"Listen, Bren," he sneers. "If he wanted to fucking bite you he would've done it already."

To his surprise, the fiery little shit launches himself at Michael for another hit. Michael immediately goes at him, too. His head throbs mercilessly and he's pretty sure Zero is growling again. The fog is thick and if he was given the chance to really think about what he was doing, he would be begging these people for help. Wouldn't that have been the logical thing? This was the first sign of human life he'd seen since Lacey and Lawrence had died. But something is wrong with him; something is wrong with his head. He can't think clearly.

His fist draws back like a whip and shoots forward, jerking to an abrupt halt when there is suddenly a solid body between them and a hand shoving him back. The girl is shaken, that much he can tell, but she is doing an almost flawless job of covering it up. The only thing that gives it away is the wild look in her eye and the way she keeps shooting glances at Zero.

"Camp, chill."

"He just - "

"_Camp_! The both of you just need to calm down! This isn't helping anything. Mark, take him back to the car or something."

"Fuck that. Lev, we're not leaving you alone with that lunatic. Or that...that _thing_."

Michael takes a step back. "Fuck you." He shoots a glare at Mark. The girl whips back around to him.

"You're not helping at all." She glances over him, her gaze lingering on the bandage on his head. "You're hurt?"

"It's not a bite."

"I didn't say it was."

Michael snorts. "It was in your eyes, princess."

He knows he has hit the nail on the head when her lips thin into a worried frown. Instead of a retort, she turns from him and walks back to the other two. Her back stiff, he knows, because of the beast at his feet. Michael rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and takes another step back. There is a scuffling sound and he feels heat gently touch the back of his legs before a body bumps against him.

"What the hell do you want?" he mumbles. A low whimper is his only answer. When he drops his hands, Zero is crouched at his left, still shirtless and wet and shivering. His eyes are wide and mouth open, panting. "I should have just let them shoot you." He doesn't know why he didn't. He doesn't _want _to know why.

"...name?"

Michael looks up, belatedly realizing he was being talked to. "What?"

The girl is keeping a safe distance away. "I said, what is your name?"

He glances past her to the two boys scowling over her shoulder, and smirks. When he looks back at her, he leans his weight to one leg and crosses his arms. It seems harder to flirt than he remembers, almost awkward after everything that has happened, but the very idea of just pissing the two of her 'boys' off further is too good to pass up.

"It's whatever you want it to be, babe."

She blinks in surprise and snorts, holding an arm out when her two lackeys make to beat his face in again. "I want it to be your given name, if that's fine."

Michael rolls his eyes, switching his weight to the other foot and unconsciously leaning against Zero. "It's not fine. Maybe I don't want to give it. But I want to know yours. That way I can put a name to that pretty face of yours."

"Fuck you!"

"Don't talk to her like that!"

Michael grins wider at the outbursts, though he doesn't take his eyes from the girl. She purses her lips and tilts her head to the side. "Levan," she says. "My name is Levan. Now, what's yours?"

"Pleased to meet you, Levan. Since I can't find it in me to deny a beautiful woman anything, my name is Michael." Zero whines quietly. "Do you want to take this conversation somewhere more...private?"

"No. Right here is fine." He smirks because she's holding back a laugh. She really is something and whichever one of the idiots she is tied to is one lucky bastard. For Michael, it's strictly platonic - his type has always run more down the...less delicate looking and more masculine, rugged type. Harmless flirting never killed anyone, though.

He grimaces as his head throbs more insistently. He can feel everything going black again and knows what it means. Panic starts to set in. Words are on his tongue, pleading and desperate, but suddenly they hold no meaning and neither does anything else. He's lost to the fog.

* * *

Zero

They watch him at all times, never taking their eyes off of him for more than a few seconds and even then he knows they are still aware of his every move. It drives his nerves crazy and his every instinct screams for him to run since he can't attack, but he stays because the man has withdrawn once more. He stays because the man cannot leave with him, and he sees that as the most basic form of survival now. That man is the key to living another day.

He doesn't understand, of course, why that is, it's just the way things are now. Just like he looks up at the sky and knows exactly how high he can leap, or eats flesh and knows it will sustain him for days to come, or that if he laps up the water the man gives him, he will not die choking on the desert's sands. It's that simple, yet it's not. He knows enough that it isn't normal, knows that the other humans know it, too.

"Lev, come on, we should just leave. I mean, look at him. He's insane."

"No, Mark. He's sick."

The smaller man snorts. "No shit, that's what we've been saying."

"Camp, stop it. I mean he's been hurt. Look at the bandage on his head."

He tenses as they stare even harder at him before flicking their gazes to the man sitting by his side. The man is staring blankly upwards and murmuring to himself as he is wont to do when the sickness is on him. Though, instead of wandering off, he is staying in one place. Even more surprising is how the man is keeping his hand on his tense shoulder as he curls by his leg. He doesn't mind the touch, welcomes it even, and bares his teeth in a would-be grin at how the humans make noises of disgust at the act. He finds an odd sense of satisfaction because of it.

"I see it."

"...I think we should stay for a little while."

The tallest man among them suddenly slams his hand down in the dirt. He snarls dangerously and readies to spring should he make a move toward himself or the man. All three remain seated and silent, watching him with hostile eyes and hands hovering over their firesticks.

After a tense moment, the angered man whispers, "He could be dangerous, Lev. He's talking to himself for fuck's sake, what if he turns on us? You want to get yourself killed?"

"Not to mention his _pet_," the other one mutters, glaring in Zero's direction. His throat rattles around a threatening growl.

The woman sighs and moves to stand up, grimacing when the two others jerk to their feet next to her. The sun is bright and streaking over the sands and pavement, but it barely heats the frigid air. The mist has all but disappeared with the threat of more rain. There are no slithers about, no little animals at all. The silence is so complete it almost seems like it's louder than any noise imaginable.

He watches the woman stare out across the empty expanse of desert, and then she looks back at him. "We're staying," she says. And then she's walking away into the maze of metal skeletons lining the asphalt. Her two boys watch her with dumbfounded expressions before begrudgingly following after, leaving the man and him by themselves.

He shivers when they are out of sight, though not out of hearing distance or range of his sense of smell, and turns to the man. When there is no reaction, his body uncoils fluidly and he turns the rest of the way around, sitting awkwardly next to the man and flicking his eyes over his bruised face. The only response he receives is having the man's glazed eyes stare back into his own.

He growls curiously and snorts, impulsively leaning forward and dropping his head against the man's chest. He tenses, knows something like this would get him a harsh beating normally, but relaxes quickly when a hand rests on the back of his neck without violence in the fingers. He is cold still, damp with sweat and rain, but the man's warmth leaks over his skin and slowly warms him.

He knows it's strange. He can sense the abnormality of the situation, though it only makes him pull his lips back in a feral smile. A part of his infected mind hopes the others come back and see them. He hopes they cringe so he can bite at them again.

Mostly he just hopes his human will not drop his warm hand.

* * *

**A/N: **WHOA. It's been a long time huh? And FFFFF guys, have fun with the EasterEgg~ In case some of you didn't catch it, or haven't read _Keenon_'s amazing fic 'Outnumbered', the characters Mark, Campbell (Bren), and Levan belong to her and have their own story called 'Outnumbered'. I recommend it hightly dudes. Like...yeah man. Read it. I fag over them like a boss. SO I hope you enjoyed the update :'D and no, if you're wondering, me and Kenzie don't think Michael and Zero will meet up with Tave and Dari. They are headed in completely different directions XD UNTIL NEXT TIME, DUCKS.

Also. Yes, this is a fag fic, yes there will be sex. It will be bumped up to 'M' eventually you horny bastards :l And to Kate The Night, I bribed and bribed and begged a little. Hopefully Kenzie will get her LAZY ASS UP AND WRITE :D


	8. Rage and fury will

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Eight**

_Rage and fury will_

Michael

* * *

He watches Zero snuffling around in the sand. A few yards away to his right, Mark and Campbell (or Camp, never Bren. _Never _Bren) are packing up the rest of their things. A week spent with them had done nothing really to improve their attitudes - his own included. Right up to just ten minutes short of them stuffing their vehicle full, Michael had almost resorted to blows with Mark. Again. Both were sporting a few good bruises from the week together, having butted heads more than a few times.

Still, despite the fights, there is a sense of camaraderie there. The fiery redhead is a little more stubborn. As for Levan, she had been the calming factor between the four of them. Michael cannot even fathom how she keeps her cool with so much testosterone in the air. She continuously reminds him of what he is missing from the life his mother had always tried to lead him down.

He supposes it doesn't matter now. Not anymore. The world is over.

"Michael?" He looks away from Zero stalking a line of ants through the dust.

"Hmm?"

Levan gazes down at him evenly. "We're about to head off. I...I think you should come along."

"We've already talked about this. I can't. You know that."

"There is nothing in Wendover!" She gives an explosive sigh and sits down next to him on the ground. "God, Michael, you're going to get yourself killed. Or worse." Her eyes cut to his monster with a pointed look. "Just come with us. Boats are taking survivors somewhere safe. You can-"

"I _can't_." He shakes his head. It doesn't hurt much anymore thanks to Levan. He's not sure what she did, but apparently she had been studying medicine in her former life. TBI, she called it: Traumatic Brain Injury. He had told her he must have hurt himself when he fell-not that he remembers much of that either. Just panic, and afterwards, horror at seeing decaying bodies splayed out around him and knowing that he would never try to hotwire a vehicle in the open ever again. And Zero tromping up while he held out that _stupid _little washer in hopes of keeping the beast from eating him alive.

She told him while she patched him up after the first day that he would have memory problems. Dizziness, moodiness and a lot of other nurse jargon he couldn't have been bothered to absorb. The only thing that mattered was that she was making it better. That there were people there. That he wasn't alone anymore.

"My sister is waiting for me. I have to find her," he says, raising his knees and resting his elbows on them. "She's the only person I have left. I can't go with you." It nearly cuts him in half to say it, but it's true. He has to find Maggie.

When he looks over, Campbell and Mark are giving him impatient looks, visibly desperate to be on the road again. Michael knows it's nearly killed them to stay stationary for so long in such an open place, but he's thankful nonetheless. He never imagined he could become starved for another person's company. But he had, and now he knows it's going to hurt when they leave him.

He almost changes his mind right then. It was such a logical choice - rescue, company, food, shelter. _Safety_. But Maggie needs him - and that's the only voice of reason in this otherwise upside down, crazy world.

"But the radio said it's completely overrun."

Michael sighs; he doesn't want to think about that. Doesn't want to let himself think for a second that Maggie could be...could be...She has to be alright. "I'm going. That's it. She said she'd be there, so I'm going to go."

"You're committing suicide."

And suddenly everything seems so insanely precious, every breath he takes, every sight and sound and color and feeling is ten times more _there _than it was before. He closes his eyes and just breathes. He wants to say that he's already dead - that he has been for a while now. Even before the apocalypse he was just going through the motions and waiting for that cold bite that meant things would end, but it hadn't. Fate seems eternally cruel to keep him alive this long.

"Michael? Just come with us."

"No." He opens his eyes slowly. Levan is frowning and when she catches his eye, she reaches up and grips his shoulder. He can feel the questions and fear festering between them and he doesn't know why, but he leans over and kisses her.

It's nothing special and it doesn't leave an impression. If anything it's like kissing his cousin or a baby niece that hasn't even learned to talk yet. But it comforts him in a way he can't even begin to understand.

When he pulls back, he notices the same expression and thoughts he's having flitting through her sad eyes. She squeezes his shoulder and stands. "I hope you make it, Michael."

He doesn't stand, and he doesn't turn around when they drive off. Instead, he sits there and stares off into the empty, desolate expanse. He doesn't even flinch away when Zero crawls up, feet and hands _shh_-ing over the asphalt, and sits next to him.

"Alright, you little bastard." Michael dumps his pack next to Zero and crosses his arms over his chest. "You and me? We're stuck together from here on out. You don't have to like it, hell, _I _don't like it and I'm the one saying this is how it is. So, here's the rules. One, don't eat me. Two, don't eat me. Three, _don't eat me_, capiche?"

Zero blinks dumbly and snorts, turning away to dig through Michael's pack until he pulls out a bottle of water with a triumphant grunt. Michael huffs and crouches down, snatching it back. "That's another rule. Don't just take things, it'll cut down on supplies. We're going to - hey!" He bats at the greedy claws trying to yank back the bottle. "We have to ration it, you dumbass!"

Of course, it makes no difference to the thirsty monster and he persists, baring his teeth around a whining keen when Michael stands and holds it out of reach. To both their surprise, Zero follows suit and stands on his legs. His very _human _legs. Michael gapes.

He's tall, maybe taller than Michael if he stood straight instead of in the half-stooped stance he hunched in. As it were, it set him just below eye level, almost under Michael's chin. Beneath the hood, his mouth is set in a grim line – still perpetually stained with pink and red of past meals.

A beat of silence passes, and it's eerie how silent Zero is. He's never been so still; so quiet. Michael finds himself staring to make sure he's still breathing. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicates he is despite it appearing the opposite. Michael swallows and lowers his arm, still keeping the water out of reach.

"Just when I was starting think you were completely animal." He licks his dry lips and takes a step back, breath hitching when Zero copies, stepping toward him. "Fuck me."

He can't see beneath the hood but judging by the way the beast tilts his head, Michael knows he can't understand what he's saying but struggling nonetheless. He deliberately stuffs the bottle back into his bag.

"No," He says firmly, crossing his arms. Zero stares, breathes in and out, and glances between the bag and Michael. It seems like forever passes before he takes another step and makes a strange hissing, growling kind of noise. It sounds like stones grating together.

Michael stops breathing.

Zero makes the noise again.

He's _talking. _

"What?" Michael's voice is barely above a whisper. "What did you say?"

Zero's face screws up like he's in pain. "…ssss…ehss – s," he growls, reaching up and touching his mouth with his dirty claws. "Ehsss."

_Yes._

The shock is almost enough to knock Michael on his ass. Since when could the beast _talk_? These weeks that they had traveled together, was this always possible? If it wasn't, had he learned? How? How could he possibly know how to move his tongue over his teeth and form words, much less what those words mean? Zero isn't human; he's a monster. A monster can't learn those types of things. A monster is nothing but a bloodthirsty killing machine.

But even as he thinks these things, Michael knows they aren't true. Hadn't he been the one to refer to Zero as a 'he'? Hadn't he named him? With these simple changes and uses of inconsequential pronouns, Michael had done what, honestly, he never wanted to do. He had made Zero human.

Numbly, he sinks to his knees and pulls out the water. Zero drops into his familiar crouch and snatches it back, guzzling it like he usually does and biting the rim in pleasure. Watching him, Michael can't see the man he used to be. He can't see a shred of humanity in that emaciated skin. He can't imagine hands clean of dirt and blood or teeth not knife-sharp ripping through muscle and sucking bones. He can't see anything other than a raving, sick beast.

When Zero drops the empty bottle and looks up at him, however, Michael immediately notices the difference there. It's in his eyes, an intelligence that sparks deep within that yellow gaze with all the maturity and wisdom of something above what he usually sees in common infected. His eyes aren't dead; they aren't glazed over with disease.

"This...this is impossible," he almost groans. With a shake of his head he pushes himself back onto his feet and pulls his pack onto his shoulder. Zero falls in at his side with no complaint.

The hardest thing Michael makes himself do is push past the denial he has carried since the beginning. Zero isn't, and has never been, the moaning husk Michael let himself believe. If that were the case he would have been a meal long before now.

No. Zero is...something not quite human, but not beast, either. Somewhere in the middle; his own category, and it's high time Michael realized it.

* * *

It's colder that night than any other so far and they chance a fire. A small one, since anything larger would more than likely attract a horde and there isn't that much ammo. With a shotgun and a pistol, it's obvious what the outcome would be, and Michael's sure not much damage can be done by chucking empty water bottles at zombie heads.

Because that's what they are. He had learned a lot from Lev and the boys. About the outbreak, about the safe zones, about the body count and how it keeps mounting and mounting…

Mark had let him listen to the radio broadcast and it talked of the 'Green Flu' and 'CEDA' and how CEDA was doing everything in its power to clean up this mess. They also said how if one of your friends were infected to take them to the nearest hospital for treatment. He had gotten three pointed looks at that statement but he wouldn't do it, he knew just as well as the others what that 'treatment' was.

Curing the infection one bullet at a time.

He sighs and rubs his arms, huddled as close as possible to the fire and staring over the tips of the flames at Zero crouched on the other side. Maybe he's let it go too far, maybe he should have killed Zero when he had the chance. But he owed his life to the...thing. The man. The poor infected bastard. He actually _likes _him, which sets off so many buzzing questions and rolls his stomach nauseously over and over that, when he thinks about it, he wishes he didn't think about it in the first place.

What's even sadder is knowing that, in a different time and place, Michael would have been only too happy to get to know the man Zero used to be.

"So, you can talk, right? What's your name?"

Zero glances up at him, golden eyes glittering from the fire. His only answer is a curious snort.

"You know, the silent treatment is very unbecoming."

A soft growl answers him.

Michael sighs and tilts his head back to look at the stars. Clouds obscure most of them; dark, gray-ish things. Rocks grind against each other in the sand as Zero edges around the fire to Michael's side. Michael doesn't flinch away or even acknowledge him, just keeps looking at the cloudy night sky.

"Lacey, my sister, she used to love stars. Had those glow in the dark ones sticky-tacked to her ceiling all through high school and into college. She was studying astronomy, you know?" He sighs and lowers his voice, mostly talking to himself to break the silence. "She would've been great. Brilliant, even. Lawrence, too."

The chill in the air sharpens and he huddles in on himself more. "Maggie on the other hand...God, she's such a tomboy, used to beat up the bullies at school. All the guys wanted her." He huffs a sardonic chuckle. "None of them had a chance though, she'd rip their balls off faster than they could ask her on a date. She was a nightmare sometimes. Polar opposite of Lacey." He glances at Zero and stares into the golden gaze riveted on him. There is no fear or hate in the look like he expects; only openness. Like Zero has nothing to had so he's baring it all in a glass-clear expression. The only issue is that Michael doesn't know how to read him.

"Wonder what your family thinks of you. If they could see you now, would they kill you like I should've? Or walk away or keep you or hand you over to the nearest hospital, something..." He sighs and shakes his head, hesitating only a second before stretching his hand out and laying it over the frayed and dirtied hood on Zero's head. "Christ. I hate you. If you can't understand anything, I want you to understand that. I _hate_ you." There's a serious lack of conviction in his tone and he tries not to let it bother him.

Zero only blinks slowly at the words, attempting and failing to understand the meaning behind them and Michael doesn't blame him. Zero doesn't have any business knowing about his family or thinking of his own, that's long gone. There's just a heavy loneliness infecting Michael and, after spending so many days in the company of _people_, warm, speaking humans, to suddenly not have them to talk to or draw comfort from aches down deep.

"I still have your bullet," He says quietly, gripping the hood in slack fingers. "The one with your name scratched into it. And before this is over, I'll kill you with it."

The fire dances softly in the shallow pit and Michael watches it, lets it blur and contort his vision as his mind slips off into a state of half-awareness where he feels numb and not so cut off from the world. He's drifting the line between sleep and consciousness, eyes half-mast and blank. Somewhere, buried in his memory bank, he can hear Lacey humming 'Hey Jude' as her and Maggie wash the dishes.

He knows when Zero shifts, knows what he's going to do, too. And, consequently, knows that he can shove him away and lay down to sleep and that will be the end of it. But he doesn't. He lets Zero press his face against his neck and lick the column of his throat without flinching away. He doesn't move when too-sharp hands curl into his jacket to hold the two of them together as teeth scrape against sensitive skin. He keeps his eyes on the fire and brings his other hand up to settle against the small of Zero's back, gripping the hood tighter in the other.

_Take a sad song and make it better... _Maggie and Lacey are giggling, throwing suds at each other, and he watches with a small grin from the living room because they are young then and haven't started fighting. _Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better. Hey Jude._

He sighs and lets his eyes slide shut, on the fire, on the memories, on all of it. When he opens them again, blazing yellow eyes are staring right back at him and all he can manage is a slight nod and a breathy, "Okay," as he pulls Zero against him, on him, and lays on his back in the dirt. Heat coils low in his stomach and he feels sick, sullied, but he still doesn't push Zero away when his mouth brushes over his jaw line and down over his neck again, tongue flicking out, tasting. Cautious. Wary.

Michael swallows and tips his head back more, heart slamming erratically against his ribs because it's an admission he wants but doesn't want to give. It's submission in ways Zero is able to comprehend and Michael can almost hear the 'click' as the infected man understands, presses closer in one long hot stretch above him; chest to chest, hip to hip, leg to leg, and breathes in soft pants against his mouth.

Too much, Michael thinks. That's too much. He narrows his eyes warningly and turns his face away a fraction, an obvious rejection and Zero gets it. Wet, chapped lips slide and nip at his jaw as clawed hands palm over his chest, hips canting into his own almost of their own volition. Michael exhales shakily and pulls the hood off, dropping both hands to grip Zero's hips and drag them against himself, swallowing around a grunt at the friction as his dick twitches in interest.

He works a thigh between Zero's legs and rubs up hard against his groin, the ghost of a smirk shadowing his lips at the shocked whimper and the embarrassingly quick, almost immediate, reaction of Zero's legs falling open to allow the movement again. He does. Smirk growing and heat blooming insistently at the stimulation.

He doesn't speak, doesn't do anything besides the basic, carnal wants that his body demands. Things that the both of them understand so easily. He allows Zero to rut against his leg, shifting and grinding against Zero's slim hip in return and groaning at the burst of pleasure and need it sparks. If things were different Michael would attack with teeth and tongue, but he can't. Zero isn't..._normal_, and they're both disgusting and covered in dirt and grime and blood and...and Michael wants to retch as much as he wants to throw Zero on his back and claim him.

So he does the next best thing. In one swift movement he flips Zero with a heavy thump into the dirt and forces his legs apart, settling between them and grounding into the cradle of his hips with a force that rocks the both of them. Zero arches and snarls - a thick, guttural noise that is the farthest thing from murderous Michael's ever heard him do, and grinds back. He squirms and twists, flashing teeth and grabbing at Michael's arms, legs splaying and then tightening against him.

And it's that mirrored want showing on Zero's face and in the near desperate jerks of his body that spurs Michael's lust higher and drives out any doubts. At least for the moment. He lets himself get lost in the fire coursing through his veins and swelling between his legs. He tastes blood from biting his tongue so hard to keep from leaning down and claiming lips parted around pants and whines, begging for attention.

Zero's hands scrabble over his chest and catch his zipper, yanking it down part way and slashing cat-like scratches through the shirt beneath, and Michael lets him. Doesn't stop him. Hisses when he jerks up and licks at his collarbone through the ripped shirt, keening low and wanton as he writhes with every hard thrust and grind Michael pounds into him.

It's the newness, the unknown of the situation that Michael understand will be their undoing. It's how they are too far gone to be brought back and led through the steps with practiced ease and passion that will keep them rutting against each other like teenagers and coming in their pants without so much as skin on skin contact. And he's okay with that because it's a means to an end for the moment. He's not sure he _wants _that kind of intimacy with a man that isn't even a _man _anymore.

Zero whimpers and presses tighter, gyrating up against Michael, tracing his nose behind Michael's ear and flicking his tongue out and Michael jerks and shivers with a sharp moan because _that_, that is crazy sensitive and he grinds down impossibly hard and desperate and _just enough_...

His muscles seize up and he freezes, dropping his forehead against Zero's shoulder and trembling as he rides out the waves of an orgasm that is deliciously hot and sensual enough to make his knees quake in the dirt. Distantly, he's aware of Zero juttering unevenly against him as he's swept up in his own climax, a ragged noise that's almost human tearing through his ears.

_...Hey Jude don't let me down. _

His arms are shaking when he manages to gather enough of himself back into awareness and he shifts, kneeling still between Zero's legs and swallowing convulsively around the bile threatening to rise up his throat. Zero's eyes are glazed over, chest rising and falling rapidly and body trembling still as he stay slumped haphazardly on the ground. He doesn't react when Michael moves away.

Michael grits his teeth and waits for the self-hate to drown him, but it doesn't. Shame lies heavily in his stomach and would probably be more insistent if it weren't for the sated and almost content feeling spreading sluggishly through his limbs. He feels dirty, soiled, disgusting in all the ways he expected except one. He doesn't regret. He just wants a shower and to be clean again. He doesn't regret. He'd do it again - wants to do it again.

Zero sucks in a sharp breath and twitches, eyes darting around like he's confused before settling on Michael and becoming deathly still. Michael relaxes his jaw and stares back, not knowing what to say and knowing that even if he did it wouldn't matter much. Eventually he turns away, making a face and grunting at the tacky pull of his jeans on his lap. He's sticky and still damp and that's annoying a thousand times over.

He studiously ignores Zero as he strips the ruined jeans and pulls on an older pair. He doesn't have any more clean clothes. But it won't matter soon, because by tomorrow afternoon he'll be in Wendover. He'll be with Maggie. The thought is enough to help him breathe easy as he slumps onto his side facing the small fire and waits for sleep to claim him.

The cold air bites at his exposed skin and he finds himself missing Lev and the others again, missing Maggie. Missing warmth. His eyes drift over to Zero's crouched form, taking in the hard set of his shoulders and the way he stares out at nothing, slack-jawed. If he was more himself, he would have laughed and offered the infected man a cigarette. Was it good for you too?

A long time passes before Zero moves closer to him, awkwardly and with an obvious disgruntled look from the state of his own pants since they are undoubtly clinging and sticky in all the wrong places. It's enough to drag a tired chuckle from Michael and a sharp growl from Zero as he slumps down against Michael's back.

He wants to push him away, really, he does. But Michael doesn't. He just sighs and lets his eyes slide shut, drawing warmth from the man at his back and trying not to react too much when he feels Zero nuzzle into his hair and huff a sleepy grunt. He keeps his eyes closed and, eventually, falls into a world of dreams.

* * *

**A/N: **Well that took forever and a day didn't it? Whoops.


	9. Watch me fall apart

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Nine**

_Watch me fall apart_

Zero

* * *

As the sun rises, he's up before the man and spilling the contents of the sack all over the ground. He knows it will more than likely earn him a blow to the head, probably a kick and some yelling, but that's okay. Being around the man has taught him many things – among which being the simple pleasure he gets wearing relatively clean clothes. Of course, he doesn't have a strong sense of 'clean', really. It's more of a suggestion; but he's uncomfortable and his pants are pulling and rubbing painfully on his lap and the man has something to fit him, so he takes them without worrying about it for long.

The ruined pair he leaves half buried in the ditch by the road.

The man is still sleeping when he crawls back to his side and sits next to him. He leans into the warmth of another body and huffs, strangely amused with the situation and finding it even more entertaining to play with the frayed cuffs of the stolen pants he's wearing. They smell of the man; thick and musky and pleasant. It sparks a teasing heat low in his gut that reminds him immediately of the previous night.

He swallows and stops fiddling with the rough material, turning his attention instead on the lax face of the man at his side. The feeling in his stomach pulsates invitingly. What they had done, the want that had driven them both to a near frenzy, he finds himself hoping for it again. It had been…good. The man had not pushed him away for once and the resulting satisfaction, the closeness, had been wonderful. It was completely different from the types of relationships established between his brothers and sisters. It was better.

And he was starting to get it now. To understand the man and his ways. Maybe he couldn't understand his way of communicating and maybe his actions sometimes were confusing and strange, but he finds himself able to relate easier now. Like speech. The day before when he had shown the man what he had learned, there had been no rebuke. No praise, either, of course, but the man did not tell him to stop. In fact, he's almost sure the man was prompting him for speech again later by the fire.

He wants to please the man more than anything, lately. Which is why, as the sun begins to rise, he remains sitting in the dirt working his jaw over a word he's heard the man say again and again with varying degrees of emotion over the course of their journey. He knows what it means and what it refers to which pleases himself firstly just on principle for being able to prove he _can _learn. He _can _understand, no matter how much the man thinks otherwise (which he gathered as much from the shock written across his face when he had spoken for the first time).

It takes a while, time enough for the sun to be visible over the horizon and the cold to start seeping away back into the rough ground, before the man starts to awaken. By that point, he has managed to form the word like an amateur, throat working more on a growl than anything else, but it's obvious what he's trying to do. His lips are parted in an excited grin when the man turns onto his back and looks up at him.

He wastes no time. "Zzz…gh."

The man squints and rubs his eyes. "The hell?"

"Zzzgh," he tries again, growling slightly when he can't get it right at first. "Zzzgh-oh."

This time it catches and the man stills, eyes widening slightly. And then the man is smiling and the warmth pooling in his stomach flares happily.

"Zero?"

He grunts and raises his hands, curling them loosely into the worn jacket his human wears and huffs his agreement. Zero. His own name. _His_.

"Starting to catch on fast, aren't you? Okay, then," he says and sits up, not brushing away the hands clutched against his chest. "Try this one. Michael. _My-call._ Can you say it?"

He frowns and takes one hand back, placing it on his own chest. "Zzzgh?"

The man's eyes roll. "Right. You Zero, me Michael. Got it, Tarzan?"

A growl works itself up out of his throat, annoyed. He knows when he's being teased.

"Easy, killer." The man's hand overlays his own. "Zero." And then his hand is removed and placed back on the man's. "Michael."

It only takes a moment for it to click and then he's practically in the man's lap in his excitement, mumbling the word as best he can and pawing at his shoulders and neck, elated at the knowledge that the man is now someone, like him. He has a name, too.

"Mmmm," he hums back. His mouth won't form the word correctly, but he knows it. Michael. Soft and then sharp, abruptly cutting from his tongue. "Mm_mm_."

The man – _Michael_, his name, his face, it's _Michael_ – shrugs under his hands. "Good enough. Don't get too excited, Christ." But he can't help himself. The name keeps trying to form on his mouth, stilted and wrong but there nonetheless, and he finally shoves his face against the hard body beneath his hands, whuffing his elation. "_Oof_. Damn it! No snuggling – you annoying little shit, get off!"

"Mmm!"

* * *

They walk for hours. He doesn't mind, though. His human, his Michael, starts talking to him more, encouraging him to repeat whatever it is he's saying. Sometimes he understands the words, as if they had been merely stored away in the back of his mind locked inside some long forgotten memory bank waiting to be remembered. Other times, most times, it's hopeless and he doesn't get it.

He keeps trying though, working so hard for that encouraging smile.

They stop when the sun reaches midpoint in the sky, fighting past some of the gathering dark clouds to shed a little warmth down on the pair of them. It's still cold, but not terribly so. Especially when the man – _Michael, Michael, Michael – _lets him crawl close and stay there. Sometimes he's even touched; soft and brief brushes of fingers or a lingering press of a hand on his back or head, always gentle, no more promises of pain waiting to lash out at any given chance. He relishes in it, nearly purring, much to his human's glee.

He can sense the rising anxiety in the air as they near a city. However, it doesn't seem important as they eat and drink small portions stowed away inside the pack ("You fucker! Those were my last clean pair of pants!"), dividing up what's left between food and clothes for the two of them. Most goes to the man simply because he cannot survive without it, and it's mutually understood that if Zero gets hungry, he will easily hunt something to feed on.

They are about to get up and walk some more when he stops his human, crawling between Michael's splayed legs slowly with baited breath, pleading wordlessly for the affection he's starving for.

Just as silently, his human obliges and sets aside the bottle of water he had been sipping from. Hands reach for him and pull him closer, slotting their bodies almost effortlessly together. Zero muffles a back-of-the-throat whimper as he dips his head for the man's delicious neck, tasting the warm, tangy skin on his tongue.

He wants more, though, but when he lifts his head to take it, Michael again turns his face away and gives him a sharp look, muttering something low and threatening. He whimpers pitifully and fights to strain closer, thrumming with want and need.

"You don't get it, do you? You've eaten people. Jesus _fuck_, I can't even think about it. Don't – don't try to kiss me." A shaky smile. "At least until we get you a toothbrush and floss."

He's allowed to indulge in the simple pleasures, but never what he begs after, for a little longer before the man is pulling away. Though not completely. He tugs Zero up by the elbows and coaxes him to walk a few shuffling steps down the road, always keeping a hand on his body. In the end, it's the desperate need to be able to feel Michael's touch on him in some form or fashion that keeps him upright and 'walking'. He stumbles and trips constantly, but he manages for a time.

At least, until they reach the edge of the town. Then the world falls in around their ears.

It starts with a stunned horde of brothers and sisters, the stupid ones, the ones that Zero finds more of a nuisance than anything, hearing their uneven footsteps crossing onto the main street. A few at a time are hardly something to worry about since Zero knows he can handle them on his own easily; however, the group suddenly tripping and falling all over themselves to get at the fresh blood is very alarming indeed in its massive size.

He drops to the ground as a scream rips from his chest. Rage and fear rush through his veins in a dizzying mixture, spurring him into action. In seconds, he's twisting in the air and bearing down on the first of the dumb runners with the blasting echo of gunshots ringing in his ears matching his shrieking battle cries.

He's too distracted using his claws and teeth to rip through soft, pliant bodies standing in his way to give much thought to anything else. Otherwise, he would have noticed the odd blinking pipe thrown into the midst of the slobbering horde. The high-pitched beeping captures the attention of most of the others and draws them away, though it remains close enough that when the explosion tears through the bodies, the blast catches Zero and flings him several feet off to the side in a painful tangle of limps and visceral organs that aren't his own.

Disoriented, he can barely hear the man, his Michael, yelling his name and shouting with alarm so evident in his voice that for a split second, Zero panics. He struggles to get on his feet and get away from whatever dangerous thing is causing such anxiety when something else sails through the air and shatters on the road. Suddenly, fire explodes around him in a vicious circle. He's trapped.

Thudding footsteps pound across the pavement and when he twists around to lash out, panicking and confused, something heavy and seemingly made of granite slams into the side of his head and thrusts him into a world of darkness.

It all happens so quickly there's hardly time enough to blink.

* * *

The city is on fire as the sun begins to sink back below the jutting hills and valleys. Oily smoke curls and coughs from the buildings, finishing them off so that everyone who happens by knows that Wendover is no more. The town is dead.

Shadows flit back and forth under the shivering light of the flames as it gets darker. Destroyed bodies are being thrown onto makeshift pyres. As they burn, the smoke turns even blacker and takes on an acrid scent, causing the shadows to gag behind plastic masks as they work. Within minutes, the streets are cleared of infected and the shadows strip off masks and split into their assigned groups.

One group takes charge of the struggling man found running down the street away from the raving infected. His gun is empty and abandoned as are most of his possessions. He is delirious and on the verge of passing out from asphyxiation from so much smoke when they strong arm him to safety.

The second group of shadows linger a while longer, a net strung out between them that is cast shortly onto a slumped and singed form halfway sprawled into an alley. The remains of a trap fire-ring still smolder around the body. Quickly the net is gathered and dragged behind the shadows and, once the groups are organized together once more, it is picked up and carried between the strongest members.

As the sun disappears and night engulfs the burning town, the shadows disappear as if they had never existed to begin with.

* * *

**A/N: **...TROLOLOLOL.

I know, I'm shocked too. I didn't expect to ever see an update. My flashdrive was never fixed and I finally gave up. Props to me though, the computer guy said he's never seen something like this situation before :D I started a horrible trend! I'm going to call it Ghost Drive. Since everything just kind of disappeared off the little bitch.

Finally, FINALLY. Things start picking up :D and remember when I said this would be 'M' rated? I didn't lie. It's just it might be longer than I thought? I mean the actual act won't be right now but the want is there and the vivd thoughts :'D just...yeah, you'll see.

Don't be hatin' bro, please review :s


	10. I'll forget about you

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Ten**

_I'll forget about you_

Michael

* * *

It takes Michael a while to realize what's going on and by that point he's too far gone to do much about it. In fact, he can't really even care about the situation. His head hurts again, even his _lungs_ hurt. With every inhale it feels like knives dig themselves a little deeper into his chest and as it's like he's swallowing mouthfuls of smoke each time even though he knows for a fact he's nowhere near the burning buildings anymore. He can't find the strength to walk on his own so he lets himself be dragged, shoes catching and bouncing on the uneven ground, for miles on end.

His head lolls, boneless, on his shoulder and his eyes stay half-open but unfocused. He doesn't comprehend what he's seeing – not until he's pulled into a shabby looking tent and deposited none too gently on the rough looking pallet on the ground. Whoever had been assigned the task of dragging his sorry load to this place leaves complaining loudly, though the insults are completely lost on Michael.

A part of him knows that he should be on his feet right now demanding answers, finding out what's happening to him, find out if he's even safe laying here, but he can't. He just can't. It hurts to breathe, to even remain awake right now and all he wants is to close his eyes. So he does. Groggily, he hopes Zero is alright and waiting for him. He hopes that Wendover isn't really destroyed. What does that mean for Maggie?

The thoughts tumble lazily around his head before settling and allowing him to rest. He sleeps for an entire day without being disturbed. Much. A few times he's pretty sure he sees the fuzzy outline of a person shuffling around the tent, but, in his sleep-induced haze, he brushes it off as Zero digging through his stuff again and leaves it alone.

Hours pass in the way only time can when you are unaware of it and Michael doesn't budge until well into the night. By then, the moon is high and the sounds outside his tent are muted. He doesn't have to wait long before someone comes in, throwing the tent flap roughly out of the way.

"Oh," the boy says. He can't be more than ten years old, with wide blue eyes and unkempt black hair. "You're up."

"What –" Michael coughs because, _damn, _his throat feels like the desert. He swallows painfully a few times before trying again. "What's going on?"

The boy crouches and, bless him, pulls a water bottle from seemingly nowhere. Michael takes it greedily. "Buck says he found you in town. He said you were gonna die. He said your lungs are full of smoke and that it's gonna be hard to breathe. But you look like you're breathing okay, so I think he was lying. Was he lying?"

Michael eyes the kid over the bottle, tipping it back for another long pull before capping it and holding it in his lap. Whoever this 'Buck' character is, he sounds obnoxious. Michael feels he won't like him and he hasn't even met the guy yet.

"I don't know, buddy. Listen, can you do me a favor?"

The boy shrugs, careless. Which is strange because Michael kind of figured people would be a little leery, like Lev and the guys were, since it's a freaking apocalypse and all. "Sure," is all he says.

"What's your name?"

"Henry."

"Okay, Henry, where are we? Do you know what happened to me?" He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Just, uh." A sigh. "I need to talk to someone in charge. Can you find me an adult?"

Henry pouts and stands. "No one ever gives me a chance." Michael grimaces and tries to think of something to say but Henry is already turning and whipping out of the tent before he can. He sighs again and roughly scrubs his palms over his eyes. He's never been good with kids.

A few minutes pass in which Michael finishes the water, pulls on his shirt (which kind of makes him wonder who the hell took it off in the first place and prompts a quick check to make sure that, yes, he still is in fact wearing pants) and fidgets nervously. If he'd been a soldier at any point in his life he would have assessed his surroundings, maybe scouted out possible exits and listened for telltale noises outside. But he's just a normal guy, so he does what any normal guy would do if they woke up and found themselves in a strange tent.

He freaks.

But in a manly way.

He doesn't pace or whimper (only in his head) or even move, really. He sits and silently freaks the fuck out. Where's Zero? Where's his sister? Where is _here_? The longer Henry is gone the more elaborate and ridiculous his imaginings get. What if this is some cannibalistic holy rollers fan club? Like, they sacrifice loners who happen to stroll by and slit their throats, drink the blood and pray to a god that has six arms and eight stomachs and a kink for body art? Or worse, one of those fat zombies that look like they had way too much fun at a twinkie convention.

Oh, God. He doesn't want one of those things to eat him. Or sit on him. Do they sit on their prey? Maybe it was just puke. Yeah, he thinks it was just puke. He seems to recall Mark mentioning something about that. And then promptly making a smartass comment of how it would be an improvement to Michael's face at which point there had been a fight and –

"So you _are _awake. I thought Henry was just fucking with me."

Michael's eyes snap up to the man pushing back the tent flap and folding himself inside. He tries not to be too intimidated, but Jesus, it's like Vin Diesel with hair. Only this guy's facial features are not as soft; he's sharp and refined in that 'I'm totally going to fuck your shit up' way. And Michael totally believes it.

"Uh, yeah. I'm awake." Oh, _really_. That so wasn't obvious, it looked like you were practicing being dead, thanks for clearing that up, Michael. Christ.

The man just grins and crouches. Immediately, it reminds him of Zero with how still and perfectly balanced the man is. Any other person would at least wobble a little. He's as still as stone.

"How you feeling?"

"Peachy."

"Well damn, that means you're not going to die after all."

Michael gives him an incredulous look. "Sorry to disappoint." They really _are _man-eating bible thumpers, _shit_. Before he can make an escape, the man laughs and holds up his hands, palms out.

"Easy," he says. "Just joking. There was a poll on if you'd survive or not. You inhaled a lot of smoke, you know. There's a bit of morbid humor in this camp – sick, maybe, but it keeps spirits up." He explains and Michael doesn't feel any better knowing it. "If it helps, most everyone was banking on you seeing morning."

Ugh. This is just perfect, already they are betting on his life. Briefly, he wonders what would happen if some hick decided he didn't like losing said bet and came to rectify it. The thought makes Michael highly uncomfortable so he quickly derails from that path and latches onto something else. "Camp?"

"Yeah," He nods, managing to look a little prideful. "It's not much, but we're surviving."

"Listen, I have to know what the hell is going on. Where is this place? What happened to me?"

"It's a safe place, that's all that matters – don't look at me like that, I'm serious. You'll know more when I'm positive your brain isn't going to melt out of your ears. Anyway, you're safe here. Trust me."

Michael doesn't trust him. Not one bit. In fact, he kind of hates the guy; too nice and helpful. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. "What happened, then?"

"We found you running like your ass was on fire down Main Street and plucked you up. You were pretty out of it man, I think you were quoting Lennon there for a while."

"My sisters liked the Beatles," he mutters distantly, already gearing up for the next question. He barely registers the "My wife loves that stuff" before he's talking again, wording his question carefully. "There was someone with me. We got split up once we got into the town though, did you see them…?" The man is already shaking his head before Michael finishes.

"There was only you." A curious glint lights the man's eyes and Michael shifts, feeling defensive and a little suspicious. He doesn't look dangerous exactly. Intimidating, sure (Michael isn't small by any means, but this guy is completely ripped), but something about the way he's watching Michael sends warning signals all over the place. It's like facing the person who just put salt in your coffee without you knowing and you go to drink it and you aren't even friends with this person, they just did it to see what kind of reaction they'd get. It's like being analyzed, Michael thinks. And, really, that's the feeling he's getting. That under the microscope feeling, and it's _weird_. He likes this guy even less. "The town was totally empty. Besides the dead, of course."

"Are you sure?" he prods. Michael has always been the type of person to poke the already pissed off bear with a stick long after he should've dropped it and moved on. "My friend was strong. He couldn't be taken down that easily."

"Positive." His face goes hard as he repeats, "There was only you."

_Liar._

"Oh."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Michael fights back a derisive snort because obviously the guy doesn't even care. "But you're alive, so you should be grateful for that."

"Yeah. I am, really. So, uh, thanks. You know, for saving me…."

"Buck," He supplies, softening again and becoming the easy-going behemoth from before. "And no problem. If the Army did nothing else, it drilled the 'never leave a man behind' shtick into my head." Michael has the brief and strong urge to slap his forehead. Of course this guy would be _the _Buck. And of course he'd be a motherfucking soldier, quickly and effectively shooting down any attempts Michael could have made to bring him down. He's seen these guys go at it before, it's like lions ripping at each other's throats. He'd rather not tie up with an ox, thanks very much. "So, if you're feeling up to it I can take you to get something to eat, give you the chance to stretch your legs and everything. How's that sound?"

Michael shrugs and flips back the blanket off his legs. "I say it sounds pretty damn good. But a shower would be better."

Buck eyes him with an indulging grin. "That can be arranged."

* * *

Turns out there is no shower, only a bucket of icy water, a rag and a tarp spread out on the ground with four heavy rocks on the corners to keep it from flying away. There is, however, genuine shampoo and soap that was more than likely raided from Wendover that Michael takes to immediately without any reservations. Buck had advised to use the products sparingly. Sparingly, his _ass_. It's been so long since he's smelled real soap that he, naturally, uses more than he should.

And if he washes his hair more than once just because he can, well, no one is there to call him out on it, are they?

He's not stupid, though. He uses the alone time to think and plan. Naked and shivering might not be the best time to do it, but, well, he has a feeling that he won't be getting much alone time once Buck comes back to collect him. Michael's the stranger, the outsider, and if Hollywood is anything to go by, he's going to be watched like a hawk for signs of desertion or craziness or traitor-like tendencies by the others and his actions herein will be judged accordingly. By that logic, he surmises it's safer to play it by the book and be the meek little survivor seeking help.

If asked questions about himself, sure, he'll answer. But in return he's going to be wheedling answers from everyone else as well. There's always a weak link and obviously it isn't Buck, which means Michael will need to find out who, exactly, it is and get his answers, his top priority being Maggie. She said she'd be in Wendover, said she'd meet him. Maybe she moved on when things starting going to hell around here. But even if she did, someone has to have heard of her or heard from her. Maybe they've even seen her. Michael just knows that he _will _find her and promise to never let her out of his sight again, to keep her safe because now they are the only ones left. Mom's dead, Lacey and Lawrence are dead, all they have is each other.

Michael grits his teeth and washes away the seemingly inch thick grime on his skin. He thinks Zero would enjoy this. Then again, probably not. He would tolerate it if Michael asked it of him but the guy just seems like an overgrown cat. He'd probably hiss and spit if forced near water or given a bath. A small chuckle works its way up and Michael stifles it, swallowing it back down. He misses him already, strangely enough. It's more than likely Zero is dead, either from the fire or from the people who'd stormed the town. Michael had seen him jump into that mob of zombies and the blast that had torn the bodies apart. Zero was resilient and stubborn and generally strong, but even he couldn't have survived that.

The knowledge stings more than it should and he tries to shake it off, focus on something else. But he can't, not completely. He can't deny that he had liked Zero – more than was strictly necessary given the situation. He cared for him. To someone else it's probably sick and disgusting, but Michael feels he can rightly give them the finger and tell them to fuck off, they didn't live through it. They didn't see what he and Zero saw, didn't suffer like they did together. And going through that kind of hell? It forms an unwavering bond. Between them, they share weeks of terror and raw hunger, of sweat and blood and tears, they share _survival_. And something like that just can't be forgotten or swept under the rug.

So Michael gets it when he feels himself sag under the pressure of it. He doesn't begrudge himself when he pictures Zero, splayed out on the ground with those gleaming eyes pinned on his own and his naked body flushed a pretty pink, of thinking how normal it makes him look and thinking of how good it would feel to lay over him and kiss his clean mouth, touch his smooth skin and revel in the intimacy they denied themselves from the start in favor of raw, carnal pleasure.

He imagines it's different this time. He imagines himself actually following through with his fantasies and covering Zero's thin frame with his own, of licking into his open mouth, groaning at the delicious feeling of an eager mouth and just not getting _enough _of skin pressed to skin, drowning in the dizzying notion that there is no space between them, that there never has to be again. He thinks Zero would make those soft noises, the ones that elicit a heat and a burning desire straight to Michael's swelling dick. He imagines, _Jesus_, he can almost feel how tight and hot Zero would be when he pushes in, when he fucks him into the ground until they're both shaking and screaming from it.

Michael pants in the silent air as his hand grips and pumps firm and sure over his cock, eyes closed tight against the world in favor of what he imagines he sees. His free hand comes up to cover his mouth when broken moans and pleas start to whisper past his clenched teeth. He can hear Zero's whimpers, his butchered words begging for more, can feel those insane teeth nipping and biting in brutal kisses, and it feels so damn _good_.

As far as jacking off material goes, it's more than enough to work Michael up to an orgasm. When he comes, it's like a punch in the stomach knocking his breath form his lungs and he has to focus on staying upright on his suddenly jelly-like legs before he falls over. His issue is splattered on the blue tarp in a white mess and he grimaces, tipping the remaining water over it to flush it away into the grass.

He doesn't feel any better, really, except maybe more relaxed and not on the verge of another freak out, but there's a slight ache that he can't ignore anymore. Figures that he'd want what he can't have and he damns himself. Damn Zero. Damn the whole fucking world for going crazy.

When Buck eventually comes back to lead him to food, Michael follows after him quiet and alert, waiting for the moment to ask his questions. He tries not to think of Zero anymore for the day. He fails miserably.

* * *

By late evening, he's seen pretty much all there is of the camp. It isn't large by anyone's standards, being simply a small nomadic settlement somewhere outside the ruins of Wendover hidden discretely in the desert. With the tents and small shacks being built primarily to blend in, it's easy to overlook it. Michael, of course, was horrified by this because wasn't rescue the prime objective here?

But Buck had merely shook his head and said, "Later," as he led him to the main gathering area (a fire pit with chairs, buckets, deadwood and various other – albeit hazardous – seating arrangements) for a _meeting_.

Michael isn't too keen on being a part of this little democracy or being questioned by more than one person at a time since he hasn't t exactly been given the same privilege, but whatever. He supposes they cannot possibly refuse him flat out if they are planning to be civil here.

Of course he's dead wrong and they end up deflecting everything he asks, sometimes even before he opens his mouth. Back in his tent, after sitting through an hour of hearing men and women bicker about food supplies and shortages on markers, he's, needless to say, pissed right the hell off. Buck, now seemingly his appointed caretaker, sits with his knees up and arms dangling, listening to Michael rant through his questions-slash-insults-slash-guesstimations until he's out of breath and red in the face.

"Finished?" he asks, clearly amused. Michael rankles and snaps an affirmative. "Good. Listen, I know it's frustrating. Really, I get it. But we're only doing it because you're a stranger, Michael. We just picked you up in the middle of an infected city, so forgive us for being a little cautious. A few people are expecting you to change soon, which is why you won't be able to go anywhere alone aside from the bathroom and to clean up. On top of that, you're also injured. Do you get what I'm saying here?"

Michael glares and wishes he could get away with punching the guy in the head without having to worry about him hulking out, or something. "I just want to find my sister."

"I know you do. That's all you've been talking about since we got you, and we'll do the best we can to help. You need to be smart about this, though. Take it easy."

"Are you stupid? She's my _sister! _I can't…taking it easy isn't an option, not until I know she's okay."

Buck sighs and shakes his head. "I know, but – "

"No, you _don't _know. Is your sister missing? Well? Have you spent weeks walking in this godforsaken desert looking for her, hoping she isn't dead like everyone else and praying to a God that can't possibly exist, not after this clusterfuck, that she's still alive? Just shut the hell up, you don't know anything."

Michael jumps as Buck slaps his hand down on the crackly plastic of the tent, eyes bright with rage and jaw clenched hard enough to break teeth. "Seriously? Are you _really _suggesting that I haven't been searching for anyone? Damn it, Michael, look around! Everybody has lost someone, everybody is looking for someone. That's how the world is now – get off your pity horse and open your eyes. It's not happening to just you." Michael physically bites his tongue, reminding himself over and over that in a fight between the two of them, Michael would lose before it even began. There's a time and place for everything and this is neither. Maggie is gone, Zero is gone, and he needs help. _Calm down. _

Buck sighs and rubs his forehead. "I'm sorry. Things have just gotten…stressful since you've shown up. And it's not even you, really, it's everything else."

Michael grunts, still fuming. A pregnant silence grows between the two of them and Michael stubbornly keeps his eyes pinned to his own hands, mapping the lines and veins and faint scars along their ridges and refuses to be the one to break it. But of course when he glances up and catches the solemn, resigned look on Buck's face, he feels sorry for him. Not in the 'oh, here, let me hug you and make it all better' way, but like 'well fine, we're both a couple of sad sacks being miserable here, so let's acknowledge that together, okay?' way.

Michael gives a long suffering sigh and tilts his head back to look at the canvas ceiling. After a moment's consideration, he flops onto his back on the sad excuse of a pallet and says, "So tell me who you're missing."

"What?" Buck manages to look surprised and draw a sarcastic snort from Michael.

"Obviously you're looking for someone too. Who is it?"

"Oh," he shrugs. "Everyone, I guess. Anyone. My family is gone."

"Infected?"

Buck throws him a sharp look. "I don't know. We lost touch."

"At least that way there's still a chance. How big's your family?"

"Mom, dad and three bro – two brothers. They're the only ones I care about. They're probably dead, though."

"You're a pretty optimistic guy, aren't you?"

"I'm just rational." Michael stares at him silently, not knowing what else to say because, really, that is the most rational thing he's heard come from the moose of a man since he met him. Everyone out there? They probably _are_ dead.

"So what about you, then. Your sister?"

"Maggie. We were all supposed to meet up in Wendover, but shit happened." Michael expects to be asked what happened and is ready to tell Buck to mind his own business since Lacey and Lawrence's accident is still too fresh in his mind to go into detail with. But when there is only silence – the heavy, uncomfortable kind thick with tension – instead, he frowns and tips his head to look at him. The expression on Buck's face has Michael sitting up slowly, suddenly on edge.

"What? What is it?"

"Did you say Maggie?" he asks carefully.

It feels like a vacuum has suddenly sucked most of the air out of the tent and ants are crawling up his spine when Michael manages to answer. "Yeah. Maggie's my sister."

"Maggie Bishop?"

Michael gapes, a million and one thoughts flitting through his head. He's practically shouting when he demands, "How do you know her?"

"She's…" Buck blinks and stands abruptly. Michael follows him, suddenly forgetting that Buck can crush him and grabbing his shirt in both hands.

"How the fuck do you know my sister?"

A beat, and then: "She's my wife."

* * *

**A/N: **Took longer than I thought to get this out but work has been a bitch =_= but anyway, thanks to all that are reviewing :D You make my day so much better! Does this count as 'M' material now?


	11. Desired attention, but denied affection

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Eleven **

_Desired attention, but denied affection_

* * *

Zero

It's a cramped space the humans have forced him in, the bars of the cold cage digging into his skin whenever he tries to move around. There is something around his throat, thick and heavy, that he can't grasp due to his wrists being shackled behind his back. His feet are also bound with a weighted chain that will keep him grounded should he ever attempt escape. There is no room to move, no room to breathe. Every pant he manages is never enough and he longs to spit out the cloth gag knotted painfully tight around his head.

All he is permitted to do is watch. And wait.

In the beginning, Zero had fought long and hard against the net. But then the humans were angry and pain was suddenly exploding across every nerve in his body as they decided to give way to that anger. Kicks, punches, long sticks – he was beaten into submission, beaten until he stopped moving and he believed that he would die. And then they dragged him across endless miles, away from his Michael, away from the town, never stopping for food or water until he was loaded into one of the moving metal carcasses.

It was almost the same build and structure of the one he had hidden inside of with his human, but this one smelled like death and decay. The scent immediately reminded him of the dumb brothers and sisters that had attacked them on the streets and unconsciously pulled an irritated growl from his dry throat, of which he was hit for. Any noise or movement he made was met with abuse and, eventually, he quieted.

When they arrived at the destination they set upon him together at once, restraining his limbs and nearly breaking his nose as they shoved his face into the dirt, having shoved him from the back of the metal box on wheels. He tried screaming a warning, snarling and snapping at their hands and fighting again for his life, but they were too big and too many, and he was tied as easily as anything. He was weak from hunger and thirst, shaken and frustrated by all that had happened already.

They used the thing around his neck to choke him until his eyes went dark and his body limp, and then they dragged him to his cage, the one he is slumped inside of now, and locked him away. For a long time he has been left alone – no other human has wandered into this shack despite how he wishes they would, if only so he could try to tear at them through the bars. It doesn't matter that he's bound, the bloodlust is like a fire in his veins and burns away what little rationality he has gathered from his weeks in Michael's company. He wants to kill.

* * *

Night comes and goes and still he lays inside the prison staring listlessly at nothing. His arms have long since gone numb. A few whimpers slip from behind the cloth unbidden when he thinks of Michael, wanting nothing more than to escape and curl into the man's warmth. The half-formed thought of his human lying dead in the streets with common brothers and sisters makes him tremble and growl silently. He tries to break free more than once but the cage is reinforced steel and his body is too weak.

It's the following evening before anything changes. A human slips through the creaky door and shoves a bowl through a little opening at the bottom of the cage right in front of Zero's nose, causing him to flinch and hiss behind the gag. His resentment and fear is forgotten quickly, though, when he glances down and sees the water sloshing around the plastic bowl.

A pathetic whine breaks behind the gag as he struggles, unbalancing himself and dunking the lower part of his face into the bowl. The water is freezing and he makes another distressed noise at the shock before sucking hysterically on the cloth, never ceasing the desperate whimpers at being unable to get as much as he would like.

The cloth gag absorbs most of the water and he's able to get a few sips down his parched throat, but it's not nearly enough. By the time he gives up, his chin and neck are soaked through and the jacket he wears turns out to be little more than a wet blanket covering his chest, uncomfortable and miserable.

"Jesus," Zero snaps his head up and glares at the human. He's a small, reedy looking man clutching a frayed book of papers in his hands. He looks both intrigued and fearful. "I told them to give you water yesterday, but by the way you look, I take it they didn't."

The man flips open his book and scribbles with a pen, eyeing Zero curiously over the cover and muttering to himself, "This would be so much easier with a recorder, I hate notating everything manually. Okay, subject is clearly emaciated which indicates a less than stable diet – different than the other subjects. They seemed to be getting constant food sources." Quieter, "Also shows signs of emotional distress. Strange. Dead things usually have lack of reaction."

Zero snarls quietly, but then stops and drops his head back to the cage floor with a broken noise, tongue still swollen and sticking to the roof of his mouth behind the gag.

"Look, I'd cut your mouth loose if I wasn't convinced you'd tear my hand off. It's your fault anyway for getting caught. And dying. Anybody worth their salt would know to turn around and run when zombies come. What did you do, sit there and wait for them to bite? God." The man begins to pace in slow circles around Zero's cage, occasionally crouching for a better look and continuously murmuring under his breath as he writes in his book. After a while, he finally stops in front of Zero's face and sets his pad down.

"Buck said he saw you following that guy around before you hit Wendover. Just so you know, that's the _only _reason you're alive right now, buddy. I mean, what are you, his dog or something?" Zero breathes out audibly through his nose, eyes searching the man's face for some sign of what he's trying to communicate. He cannot make any sense of the jumbled words, yet there seems to not be any immediate danger. Even so, Zero remains tense and expectant of a blow. "Oh my God, I'm talking to a zombie. Everybody's right, I'm losing it."

Once more the man circles Zero's cage and takes notes. The repetitive motion begins to lull Zero into a dazed awareness and he begins whimpering under his breath again, momentarily forgetting noise only rewards him pain. All he is able to truly focus on for longer than a few short moments is Michael's face, the timber of his voice, and his welcoming touch.

By the time he jolts from his stupor, the reedy man is gone and he is alone again. He does not return until morning.

* * *

A week passes in which Zero is poked and prodded by the mysterious man. Not once is blood drawn or pain inflicted – at least, not by this twitchy human. One afternoon, a rowdy bunch of youths broke in and stood silent in the dark of the shed watching Zero watch them back, and, after a few silent minutes, had begun to jeer and smack the bars, shouting in his ears for a reaction.

He had tried to attack at being so tormented, but, once he realized that's what they wanted, he stopped and ignored them until the scholar returned and chased them away. Since then, it seems as though the man is making an effort to keep Zero away from the others (and Zero knows there are more because he can smell them, hear them – _somany_). He is strangely grateful for the kindness, even though he can't understand it.

He craves for Michael every second. This new man is generous and accepting but keeps his distance, only stepping close to offer Zero food and water (having reached through the bars and removed the gag, finally, once it was realized that Zero would not bite unless driven to it, and every now and then his arms are released, but never his legs. Never his legs, and never let out). Even the brief one-sided conversations that take place do nothing to soothe the ache settled in Zero's chest that throbs with every thought of his own human.

Time ceases to matter before anything changes and by that point Zero has taken to growling out noises that have the hint of structured words hidden somewhere in them, endlessly intriguing his observer to the point that he's chosen to sit and listen in more than once. Zero ignores him for the most part, more fascinated in examining his newly cleaned fingers (having copied the other man after seeing him dunk his hands in a bowl of water much like Zero's own and rub them together) and mumbling his way through this revelation, eyes bright and intelligent.

It's when he's grunting and stretching his hand out for a slice of raw meat that Michael bursts through the rickety door, nearly capsizing the other man and sending Zero's nearly docile-like behavior straight out the window.

Zero is immediately clawing at the cage and making a loud, strange mix of noises ranging from broken growls to something nearly like throaty sobs. Both men start to yell and get in each other's faces, provoking a violent response from Zero at the threat of his Michael being hurt right in front of his eyes – and him having no way to provide aid.

It is frustrating in ways he has yet to experience and he snarls his indignation through the steel of his cage.

"What the fuck, Chester? You said you had nothing to do with this! You said you knew nothing about him!" Michael towers over the scholar, yet the other man is strong in his own right, refusing to step back.

"Calm down, you'll get the whole damn camp on us with how you're acting," he snaps. "I couldn't tell you anything, alright? I'm sorry."

"You little prick, why not? I told you about Zero – you knew I wanted him back and you just…"

"I was following an order, Michael. It's how things work around here."

Zero thrashes. "Oh, really? That's how things work? Really? _Look at him_. Look at what you did to him!" Zero immediately latches his fingers into the thick fabric of Michael's sweater when he comes close, shoving his nose through the bars into his chest and inhaling, shuddering at the familiar scent and longing to be free just to get closer. "Jesus Christ, I could kill you. I could kill all of you fuckers."

Chester, the reedy observer, snorts in disbelief. "Please. You couldn't kill your own sister."

Zero whimpers as he feels his human stiffen in anger. "What does Maggie have to do with this? She doesn't count." The resignation in his tone is startling even though the demand was formed as a question – as if his human already knows the answer to what is being asked.

"Man, come on. Your sister was the one who told me to keep this from you."

* * *

Michael

In the week that Zero was kept hidden away in the forlorn looking shack at the edge of camp, Michael was reunited with his sister. It was not a very joyous reunion considering the first thing she did was punch him in the shoulder and then cling to him so hard his ribs creaked and sobbed into his shirt until it was wet. To his credit, Michael didn't cry. He held her just as tightly though and tripped through the first of many apologies.

Once they had gotten through the near hysterical How are yous and Where have you beens and I thought you were deads, Michael had pulled Maggie away and explained what happened from the moment they had last spoken, including the death of their sister and Lawrence. It was at that point that Michael cried, breaking down completely and becoming the kid brother seeking his big sister's comfort from so many years ago.

It was tough on the both of them considering they had nothing left but each other. But, once it was over, the questions started and didn't stop. Michael learned that in the time Maggie had spent away from home in college, she had met Buck Anderson and – gag – had fallen in 'love'. Deciding that the end of time was nigh, they had jumped the gun and gotten married in the camp with witness and a preacher, making it all official like.

The camp was watched by the U.S. Army and, every Sunday, a convoy would arrive and drop off necessary supplies. It was kind of like a volunteer camp. Survivors chose to stay and take in loners – much like Michael himself – and, if the survivor wanted, hand them over to the military for safe evacuation. Mostly, the camp was to keep a human hold on the virus spreading so that people didn't go extinct or something, and to spread morale to those that left for safer grounds.

"But we're really just a test, you know. The military wants to see if we can survive out here. So far, so good."

When demanded why she hadn't gotten to a safe zone while she could, she had looked Michael dead in the eye and said, "This is where I'm needed." And that was that.

In return, Michael told her everything. There was no reason to keep secrets from his sister, she always seemed to find out anyway. So he told her about Zero and how he'd saved his life more than once, how they'd first started traveling together and, weirdly, Michael enjoyed his company a lot. He missed him.

"He couldn't talk much, but he was learning. I think…I swear, Mags, I think – no, I _know _he was still human. His eyes, you could see how smart he was by his eyes. They were clear instead of the fogged up mess these other pieces of trash have. I wish I could've saved him, I owed him that much."

Maggie had been visibly disturbed by it all and so he stopped talking about it. At her vehement insistence, he had even stripped to his boxers and spun in a circle to show that he had not been bitten or infected. He was fine. Except for his head, which he explained as a fuck-up on his part when he tried to hotwire a car and the alarm sounded off, attracting a mini-horde and getting him a nasty cut thanks to a strategically placed rock on the ground that his head just felt the need to get intimate with.

It took hours for them to work through everything and by the time they decided it was time for bed, it was well into the dark hours of the morning. And they only stopped because Buck came to find Maggie, whining (in Michael's opinion, to which Maggie gave him a very stern sister look) about how he couldn't sleep without Maggie next to him.

The days passed slowly and Michael was content if not outright comfortable. He missed Zero more and more, never realizing that most of his conversations centered around the infected man or would begin to veer that way lest Maggie stop him with a warning that not everyone would be as understanding as she was if they were overheard.

Michael didn't point out that she wasn't exactly understanding. In fact, she looked pained every time he brought it up, but it couldn't be helped. Zero wasn't there, and Michael wanted him to be, and therefore he was going to talk about him so at least he'd be alive in conversation. Michael just wasn't ready to let go.

He couldn't have known what was really happening, however. And he wouldn't have ever found out despite most of the camp's obvious wariness around him (which he naturally chalked up to him being a new face and never considered the idea that a few of them might know about Zero without his knowledge), had he not been listening outside Maggie's tent one evening when she was hissing at Buck that he should kill 'the monster' before Michael found him.

"It's dangerous, I don't care what you say. Just because it didn't kill my brother already doesn't mean it's a pet! Make Chester stop the – studies, they're not going to answer anything. Michael thinks it's dead, so, please, _please, _Buck. Kill it before it kills someone else."

By the time she had finished begging, she was in tears and Michael was half way across camp, ripping through like a tornado. He knew Chester on a personal level and considered him a friend already. If Michael wasn't with Maggie, he was with Chester, poking around at his pickled jars of scorpions or scouring through his nerd books. He liked Chester; Chester was a funny guy.

But now Chester was considered a Grade-A asshole, and Michael wanted to break his face.

* * *

Zero

Zero is still making desperate keening noises by the time both men calm down enough to focus on him instead of each other. His fingers refuse to unclench from Michael even as he feels the familiar touch of fingers push through his hair and grip the back of his neck in an act of reassurance.

"Easy, I got you now. I'm here."

"Michael – "

"Just shut-up for a minute, alright? Let me think."

Zero whimpers, angry and upset and ready to explode from the hurricane roiling through his body; desperate to be free, desperate to be as close as possible to his human because he's _alive_ and _there _and Zero needs, more than anything, he _needs._

After a long stretch of silence filled only with Zero's strangled noises, Michael begins to pull away, and he panics, clutching harder and panting anxiously. The man stops immediately and moves back in, brushing knuckles so gently against his scarred cheek.

"It's okay. Zero? It's okay. I'm not leaving. I'm gonna to let you out, but you need to let me go. Stop holding – yeah, there, good. See? I'm right here." He watches intently as Michael steps back and turns his head to the scholar, hands gripping the bars next to Zero's own. "Help me get him out. _Now_, Chester!"

"I-I can't, I'm not allowed to – " Zero flinches back, taken by surprise by how fast Michael moves across the room and snatches the other man by his shirt to drag him back to the cage. "Fuck! You're insane!"

"Let him out." The smaller man is shoved at the cage, jostling Zero inside. "Chester, I swear to God…"

"Fine! Jesus Christ, fine, you crazy sonofabitch." Chester glares for a few seconds more before jerkily pulling a key from his pocket and setting upon the heavy padlocks latching the cage in place. When they are all removed, falling to the ground with individual heavy thumps, he then snaps off the plastic ties wound through the seams of the cage along the sides that served as extra restraint. Some bear teeth barks gouged into their texture, giving testament to their effectiveness, much to Zero's annoyance.

When the cage is broken down to nothing more than its original design, Chester steps back and gives Michael a pointed look. "Like hell I'm going to open it. You do it. I'm not even going to risk getting bitten."

"Pussy," Michael snaps and pushes him aside, yanking the cage door open. There is a flurry of movement punctuated by a painful grunt in which Zero attempts to launch out of the cage and only manages to tumble out ungracefully do to his legs still being tightly bound together. Michael is by his side in a flash, carefully undoing the weighted chain with expert fingers and tossing it away.

"Michael! Man, c'mon, don't let him get away. Buck is going to…"

"I don't give a shit what Buck is going to do," he growls, pulling Zero up and against his solid chest. Zero nearly purrs as he wraps his arms tightly around the man's ribs, crushing himself against the solid weight. A sense of gratitude so fierce settles in his stomach as Michael lowers his voice just for him, talking. "There, that's better, right? I won't let this happen again."The rumble from the man's chest is enough to ease the prickling pain stinging his numb legs.

Zero can hear the other man shifting impatiently a few feet away. "Mike, someone's going to see."

"I don't care," he says back tightly. "Get me a rag or something. Wet it."

"What for?" But he is moving regardless to do just that.

"There's blood on his legs from the chain. And his face is bleeding. He's filthy."

After a pregnant pause, Zero tenses and turns his head at the sound of rushing water and approaching footsteps. Chester's dirty jean-clad legs stand before him and he lets a warning hiss slip from behind his clamped teeth. A reassuring hand on his back kills the sound before it can get any further and Zero huffs, twisting his back to the other man in a clear dismissal, something he had picked up from watching his own human. It earns him a slight chuckle and perplexed snort from the two men.

He allows Michael to clean his legs without fuss, having long since sliced and torn the pants material from the knees down in various different situations over the week. Most of the gashes in his legs are from his own doing trying to get free of the restraints, though all are but superficial wounds and washed easily.

When Michael moves to scrub gently at Zero's face, however, he freezes and stares openly as if looking down the barrel of a firestick. There is no fear, though. Plenty of trepidation, but he is not full out afraid of what is being done. In fact, he craves this intimate touch like nothing else and begins to lean into it, letting his eyes droop to half-mast and mouth fall open as the rag passes over his lips. He feels tension bloom between the two of them like something living and mewls, dropping seeking hands to Michael's lap. The man jerks and stops the repetitive wiping motions. Hands grip Zero's wrists like a vice and Michael's voice is whip-sharp when he hisses, "No. Stop it."

Zero whines pathetically, confused. Just as he is about to press closer, insistent, the audible gasp from Chester catches his attention.

"Oh, my _God_ – "

"Chester, it's not what you think."

"You…and _it_?"

"No, you asshat! I said it's not what you think!" Zero cringes and bares his teeth at the rise in tones.

"You're _fucking it_? What the hell!"

Michael pushes Zero off despite his vehement and wordless protests, though makes no comment when Zero follows suit and stands stiffly at his side. He watches the other man with a near hateful glint in his eye for stealing Michael's attention so thoroughly.

"Would you shut-up? I'm not fucking him."

"Really? Because it seems like you were just _seducing _it right in front of me."

"Stop calling him 'it', he's got a name."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Should I call him sweetheart, or is that taken by you? Baby, perhaps?"

"Smart ass. He's human. Don't look at me like that, he is. He's different and you know it."

Zero snorts at the look of utter shock on the man's face and rolls his eyes in a very human-like way. He may not be following the conversation in its entirety, but he knows enough. He knows it's about himself and Michael and that, obviously, Chester is unsettled by it. The thought prompts an almost-smirk on his newly cleaned face.

"You've lost it. Not only is Buck going to flip shit, the entire camp is. This is – there's not even a word for how messed up this is. It's – oh, excuse me – _he's_ a fucking zombie!"

Zero eyes Michael warily when his hands suddenly clench into threatening fists at his sides, bleaching the knuckles white. "He's just sick."

Chester's disbelief seems to increase tenfold. "Sick," he deadpans.

"For now. Eventually, if something's not done, he'll be like those others. Just – fuck, Chester, listen. I'm going to fix him, okay? I owe him my damn life. I need you to keep him here though, you can't let anyone hurt him. Just until I figure it out."

Chester blanches. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. I don't know. I'm…I'm going to make him human again."

Zero snorts quietly and leans against Michael's side, emitting a pleasant hum when he isn't pushed away.

Chester sighs, resigned. "You're fucking insane."

"Yeah." A warm hand settles low on Zero's back. "Yeah, I know."

* * *

**A/N: **This was proof read really quickly, so there are probably a plethora of mistakes. I just don't have the time to do a more in depth read, so please accept my humblest apologies :U ...and fuckin' review, you asshats.


	12. Somebody's gotta choose

*twitches* ...so, it's been a while, yeah? Sorry! No, really, I'm sorry. You can blame the Army, they dragged me away and made me do things. And kept me away from updating. Like, everything. So, yeah, I apologize.

Big thank you to the reviews I received that told me to get my ass in gear and stop waiting around. So, this is to you guys! Thanks!

Also, since I felt the pressure heating up, this is probably pretty terrible and chuck full of grammar mistakes. Again, I apologize. Please be gentle, I'll get back up to speed soon!

And if this chapter makes little to no sense - my bad. I tried.

* * *

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Twelve **

_Sombody's gotta choose_

Michael

He visits Zero every day, every afternoon, for as long as he can manage without anyone else in the camp getting suspicious. Chester swore secrecy after Michael blatantly threatened to chop off his balls if he didn't, and insofar kept to his word. Whether out of fear, as Michael suspects, or some lingering sense of loyalty to their infancy-like friendship is not all that clear, but Michael is grateful nonetheless and tells him every now and then how much he appreciates it.

During his visits, Zero is let out of his cage (he almost broke an arm that first day when Chester and Michael both tried putting him back in, and it took some serious coaxing on Michael's part for him to eventually become complacent) and given fresh water – from a water bottle instead of a bowl – and food. Michael likes that last part, because instead of the jerky or dry-as-piss MREs, there are actual _meals_. And Zero's reactions to them are priceless. The first time he was given some mac n' cheese – the kinds in those tiny plastic bowls that you nuke in a microwave, but, in camp, just add boiling hot water and the cheese powder to – it looked like he was three seconds from creaming himself.

Michael has since used it as a treat for good behavior or whenever he feels generous.

During the visits, Zero doesn't like to move very far from Michael and whenever Michael tries to put some distance between them, Zero will start to growl or just outright grab Michael on the arm, or wherever he can get a hold, and garble words at him, scowling like a kid who just got his candy taken away until Michael gives in and stops trying to escape. Chester makes it obvious he finds it both amusing as well as disturbing, much like he feels about everything else having to deal with the two of them.

Especially bath time, of which Chester refuses point blank to be a part of. The first time had been nothing short of a disaster since Zero did not take kindly at all to being dumped in a large tub of water with soap scrubbed into every inch of his skin. It was like trying to bathe a cat with all the scratching and hissing and all out aggression he delivered, but, in the end, and after some heavy petting in some feel-good places, Zero had been all but purring at the end.

Now, he all but jumps into the tub himself when Michael drags it in. He's even learned to take off his clothes without tearing them, and to remain calm and collected until he's finished being thoroughly cleaned. And if he happens to croon amongst the suds when Michael's hand works him up into a frenzy beneath the water, well, no one but the two of them are aware.

A few weeks pass with Michael coming and going to the shed during the day and spending his time with Zero, continuously reassuring himself that the infected man is really alive. Hours are spent teaching him things, simple human things, like brushing his teeth (which sent Zero into a conniption at the acidic taste of toothpaste), brushing his hair (that never lays flat no matter how forceful Michael is with the comb, somehow always managing to stand up in that just-got-out-of-bed way. Or, as Chester likes to refer to it, the was-just-fucked-stupid style), shaving and eating with utensils – the last of which is very much still a work in progress, just to name a few.

He seems relatively human sometimes, the only contradiction being the red rash-like smears across his eyes and the yellow irises swimming in black where white should be. Despite these obvious differences, Michael is finding them easier and easier to overlook in favor the handsome man being shaped before him.

Zero walks more often than not now, albeit in a stilted, awkward kind of gait, but walking nonetheless. By Saturday of the third week in camp, he's only crawling when unsure or irritated, or when he knows he can get what he wants from Michael if he acts pitiful.

Michael's working on that last part. Really.

"Man. That's so wrong, he knows how to use the spoon now."

Michael flips Chester the bird and continues spooning sprouts into Zero's mouth. "He won't eat these on his own, he hates them." Zero growls behind clamped lips as the spoon bumps insistently. "C'mon, just one more?"

"Ew."

"You're not helping."

"Sorry. _Yum_, Zero. _Mmmm_," Chester says sarcastically, and Michael is about to turn around and throw the mostly-empty plate at his head when Zero's mouth drops open, more than likely to growl or snarl at Chester for being an ass, and Michael takes the chance to shove the spoonful into his mouth.

Zero sputters and shoves back weakly when Michael grabs his jaw to keep it closed. "Swallow. It's not that bad, just swallow. There you go, good boy." He chuckles at the baleful look Zero gives him as he swallows the last bit down.

"Ugh, 'good boy'? Really?" Chester clatters the cage around, shoving it against the wall so it's out of the way. "Why not name him Fido and rub his belly?"

Michael snorts and releases Zero's jaw. "Well – "

"Don't comment, I'd rather stay ignorant, thanks." Michael laughs as Chester makes a show of gagging as he tips a steaming bucket of water into the tub he's kicked to the middle of the room. Zero leans around Michael to watch, an obvious smile of anticipation playing on his lips.

Another human thing he's starting to pick up. Emotions and expression.

"Mind out of the gutter, nerd."

"With you in front of me? Impossible." Michael snorts and raises his eyebrows innocently as Chester makes a disgusted face. "That came out wrong, that made me sound gay, didn't it?"

"Only a little."

The scholar throws his hands up in defeat. "Whatever. I'll leave you to do your thing, just be quick. I don't need Maggie coming around here looking for you again if you expect me to keep your little pet a secret."

Michael sobers and nods, getting to his feet. They had almost been found out had it not been for Chester's quick thinking a few days ago when Maggie came looking for her brother. Michael had been inside the shed with an arm around Zero to keep him still and a hand over his mouth, listening as Maggie interrogated Chester on his whereabouts and then on the monster kept inside, demanding to know if it was dead yet. Obviously, Buck wasn't doing as she wanted and putting a bullet through Zero's skull.

He grimaces and flashes the geek a sheepish smile. "Thanks. You know, for everything."

Chester sighs and flashes a deprecating smile that's gone in the next instant. "It's what friends are for, I hear. To provide awesome backup when their buddy suddenly decides it's a good idea to bag himself a zombie and keep it." He chuckles for real this time and gives Michael a look that's equal parts pity and amusement. "Hurry up and get your puppy clean. Lock the door when you leave this time, I found Henry in here the other day trying to feed Zero sugar cubes. The bastard's already hyper enough."

"Henry knows about him?"

The other man nods as he pulls on his jacket and skullcap. "Him, and most of the camp. Precautionary just in case someone gets infected. No one told you just because Maggie and Buck don't want you to know, and they rule this place, dude."

Michael tries not to let that annoy him too much, he's known since a few days after his arrival that Maggie and her hulk of a husband are kind of like the mayors of the place. It's their camp and nothing goes on without their knowledge or approval. Except for Michael's visits to Zero, and, hopefully, they won't find out about that at all until Zero's cured. Or at least until they find out how to fix him.

"See you later."

Michael blinks and gives a half hearted wave. "Yeah, later." The rickety plywood door slams shut behind Chester and Michael moves to slap on the padlock to keep the wind from blowing it open. Or a certain curious kid with a penchant for mischief.

Zero grunts and shuffles to the tub, giving Michael an expectant look.

"You can do it," Michael says, chuckling. "Just because you're feeling lazy doesn't mean I'm going to help you get naked." At Zero's nearly petulant look, he snickers again and crosses his arms resolutely. "Nope."

They stare each other down for a good solid minute before Zero whines pathetically in defeat and mulishly starts undressing himself. He drops the borrowed clothes in a haphazard pile on the floor while Michael watches with an amused grin. Chester is always complaining about how "the little pest needs to learn to fold his clothes. I mean, seriously, he's junking up my shed!".

When he's stripped, Michael gives an encouraging nod and turns to pick up the bottle of shampoo Chester was generous enough to loan him in exchange for a week's ration of sugar (the man has an addiction, Michael's sure of it). Zero slips noisily into the tub, still having trouble with not sloshing the warm water over the sides in his eagerness.

It's chilly now, but huddled inside the shed with the steam wafting up from the little basin warms Michael up quickly, as does the pleasant flush of arousal that heats his skin when he turns and watches Zero hunch over and croon at the warm water lapping at his skin.

"Can't take too long this time, you little demon. If Maggie's snooping around, she'll have a shitfit at this." Zero grunts by way of answering and Michael drops to his knees.

Michael doesn't like to think about things. Especially about things that make him uncomfortable or pose problems in the immediate future, but, lately, spending so much time with Zero, it's become a lot harder to _not _think about those certain things. He doesn't like to think about things, but when he does, he can't stop. At least not when it comes to the beast-cum-man sitting in front of him.

"We're going to fix you, you know," he says, working a lather into Zero's hair. "I know it's taking a long time but…it's going to happen. And when you're better I won't have to worry about you getting a bullet to the skull twenty-four-seven."

Because he's not stupid. Michael knows this slight reprieve, this break they are getting, it won't last forever. Sooner or later, someone is going to find out he's keeping Zero healthy and treating him like a person instead of the slathering monster the camp is convinced he truly is. There really isn't any reason to keep Zero and it's only because of Chester's quick thinking and excuse of studying the virus that Buck hasn't come stomping through with orders of execution.

The camp is based on survival and adapting to catastrophic situations. Chester explains away his 'zombie pet' as a means to an end on figuring out exactly what they are up against and, so far, Buck has bought into it. Maggie is still a far cry from accepting it though, and, really, Michael gets that. He does.

The virus killed their family, after all.

As far as Buck is concerned, though, Michael doesn't like him. He is grateful to the man for keeping his sister in check, don't get him wrong. If things had gone her way, Zero would have been dead and burned the day he arrived.

"Mmmmrrr," Zero croons, shivering as Michael pours bowl after bowl of water over his head to rinse him.

Over the weeks, an understanding of sorts had been met between the two of them. Michael doesn't fight the pull he feels whenever he's close to Zero and, honestly, he supposes he hasn't been running from that for some time now. But the acceptance of it, the realization of the fact that he's in it for the long haul now, drives it home even more. Whatever happens – today, tomorrow, in a year – Michael will face it with Zero. They survived this long together, and they can survive a little longer. Soon, maybe they can just _live_.

A small smile works itself onto his face as he takes a rag and washes the day's dust and grime off Zero's healthy (ish) skin. There are plenty of scars and bruises, and he's pale as all get out. But it's an amazing improvement from just a few months ago. Michael has learned to appreciate the small things.

"Alright, that's good, time to get out." Zero unfolds from the tub easily, not putting up a fuss like he usually does when Michael drops a towel on his head and dries him off. It doesn't concern him at first since Zero's been learning little by little what he can and can't do.

It has never failed in the past that when Michael jokingly dries Zero's ears by jabbing cloth covered fingers in them like a wet willy, Zero always rips the towel away and snarls the one curse word he's managed to learn flawlessly: "Fuck!"

This time, however, when Michael's smile widens to a grin and he does just that, Zero merely flinches and emits a soft, rumbling growl of annoyance.

Michael frowns and pulls the towel away. "Hey, what's up with you now?" His only answer is a frown, an actual frown, and what seems suspiciously like a pout.

Chester has explained time and again how Zero's picked up things from them, and Michael supposes this is just another one of those expressions that he's learned to mimic as a means of communication, since speaking still proves to be harder to grasp. Off-handedly he chalks this particular tic up to Henry, who Michael has discovered is the master of puppy pouts.

Seriously, the kid is a pro.

"What?" he asks again, tilting his head and trying to catch Zero's eye since he's looking down at the ground instead of back at Michael. Zero jerks his face away. "You're avoiding me. Hey, look at me, Zero."

He doesn't.

Michael frowns impressively and steps into the other's space, gripping his chin – gently – and forcing his head back around. Zero keeps his eyes downcast and a soft growl begins from somewhere low in his belly, vibrations tingling all along his throat and jaw and through Michael's fingers.

Something's up, that much is certain. But the 'what' simply eludes Michael. Up until now, he has prided himself on being able to understand nearly everything his little monster does. From the twitch of his leg muscles when he's anxious to the lopsided smile he flashes whenever he has managed to accomplish some small, meaningless task (like fitting some block shapes into their appropriate slots to some mundane child's toy Chester had brought in one day).

Sure, it's been a bit harder than usual lately since Zero's managed to begin learning the basic fundamentals of being human once more. It has complicated things, Michael won't lie. Where he's used to Zero being reduced to raw, caveman-like tendencies and being able to read him like an open book, in the past month it's become apparent that those days are pretty much over. Zero's _learning._

And, Michael supposes, a part of that learning is becoming familiar with how to hide things from a friend. Or whatever they are. He sighs and gives Zero's chin a slight shake.

"Hey, c'mon. Please? Don't shut me out. Use your words. Tell me what you're thinking." He ducks his head a bit to try and catch Zero's eye again, and again he's ignored. With a frustrated noise of his own, Michael takes his face in his hands and tilts his chin up until Zero has no choice but to meet his gaze.

When they're eyes finally do lock, it suddenly hits Michael like a punch to the gut.

Zero's pupils are blown wide with heat, with pure animal _want._ His breathing is almost silent between them, and quick like a rabbit's. His jaw is clenched painfully shut to the point that Michael is pretty sure he can hear the molars creaking in protest.

He knows what Zero wants without having to ask, and any other time he would give it to him. Rub one out for him, reduce him to moans and whimpers and take the edge off because it's what they do. They give and take without question and, no, it ain't normal, he knows that. But things stopped being normal when it was okay to pull out a shotgun and blow some stranger's face off when he decided to chomp on your sister's face.

Whatever they got is the least of their problems in the grand scheme of things.

Zero keeps making that soft growling sound and Michael takes a second to look at him. Really look at him. There's that curious scar on his face and bow shaped lips, a jaw that could cut glass and long, beautiful lashes. If he was cured, he'd be something else. Michael wouldn't stand a chance – not that he does now, really. He's proved that time and again from the moment the bastard snuck up on him all those nights ago.

"Did you know?" he asks quietly, staring into the strangely luminescent golden eyes before him. "When you first started following me, did you know you wanted this?"

The obvious answer is no, of course. This – _they_ – grew together, developed. Michael knows without a shadow of a doubt had the situation been different, had Lacey and Lawrence not died and left him all alone, had Zero not been just as lonely and lost out in that wasteland, they would have killed this man without a second thought.

They were drawn together by the simple, desperate hope to survive. And they stayed because now there was no going back anymore. Michael doesn't want to, and with the way Zero is begging him without a sound, with just his eyes, he knows the sentiment is returned in full.

"Okay," he breathes, finally. Zero's eyes widen in awe. Michael gives a slight, jerky nod and says it again. "Okay." He tips forward that last scant inch and presses his mouth to Zero's.

Fire.

That's all Michael feels, and the kiss quickly changes from something new and innocent to feral and all-consuming. It had been a long time coming. His hands slide into Zero's hair and grip the wet strands hard, pulling him closer and forcing the hot mouth against his own to open. His heart nearly thrashes its way out of his chest as Zero allows it to happen, mewling into the kiss for more.

He feels wet skin press all along his front as Zero fights to get closer, responding like a man starving for more, more, more. It is sloppy at first, because he obviously doesn't know what to do, but then it is like something clicks and Michael imagines he can even hear it all make sense for him. And with that sudden comprehension comes something Michael never expected.

Zero bears down on him with a sudden surge of power and shoves him into the shabby plywood that makes up one of the four walls to the shed. Arms bracket him in, trapping him, as Zero attacks with teeth in tongue in ways that rob the breath straight from Michael's lungs.

Heat is all he feels around him, threatening to overtake him completely as it presses in on all sides. Even his fucking toes curl in his boots. This is…this isn't what he expected at all.

He knows in the back of his head he could let this take on a life of its own, see where it will lead them, and it would be way too easy what with Zero being completely naked already. But for some reason it doesn't feel right. Like, if he went with it, if he didn't stop it, somehow he feels that they actually would change – and not in a good way.

If he lets it happen he knows their trust will break. It can't happen like this; they can't come together like animals even though that's all they've known of each other. It has to be different, it needs to be. For both their sakes, they have to slow down.

Michael eases off, slowly uncurling his fingers from their painful grip to stroking through Zero's hair and petting the sides of his face. It takes a while to calm him back down with gentler kisses and soft words of reassurance, but Michael doesn't mind.

It's almost sweet, and it shocks him how much he likes that.

Zero is rock hard against his stomach when they finally break away long enough to get more than a couple of breaths. They're both are. But instead of going at it again, Michael curls a hand around the back of Zero's neck and presses their foreheads together.

He starts talking, of what he's not entirely sure, just talks until they're both calmed down and Zero's trembling body has stilled. Sure, they might have a serious case of blue balls after this, but Michael can't even get annoyed. It feels right. He's glad they didn't take it further – not yet, anyway.

He kisses Zero once, sweetly, on the lips and nudges their noses together. God, what a sap he's turning into for this guy.

"We're getting there," he murmurs. "We've been pretty fucked up until this point, but we're gonna make it right."


	13. And when he breathes

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Thirteen **

_And when he breathes_

Zero

* * *

Something has changed. He can sense it in the way Michael looks at him in the quiet moments they have together, and he can feel it in the way he touches him. It's even there when they…they use their mouths.

He likes it when they do that. He likes it a lot.

Michael does, too. He knows it because when they do, there's this look his human gets. Like he's happy and content and nervous at the same time. It's a beautiful look, Zero decides. He likes putting it on Michael's face.

But it's also in the very air they breathe. It strikes him as strange, the way the room can become so charged with energy all of a sudden and make him feel as if lightening were crackling on the tip of his tongue. And then, when Michael's tongue is tangling with his own, the way that charge ignites between them in a sudden burst of sparks.

It's wonderful.

They dance around it some days while on others it is all they indulge in. They explore each other in a way that suggests they have never known each other outside those moments. Gone is the madness and urgency from before, leaving a quiet curiosity in its wake and a sense of innocent tenderness that simply baffles Zero on his best days.

He tries to understand things, he tries to understand Michael and he's getting so much better. He knows this because his thoughts are more structured now, flowing with the words he has learned instead of impressions of physical things and flashes of sights, smells and tastes. He _gets_ things.

For instance, he knows hunger and that the food he receives comes from production – from people outside. He understands clothes and the reason for them. He understands that his presence is unsettling to the ones living around the shed he stays in because he can smell their fear. He understands he's different than everybody else.

But he knows other things, too. Like the color of the sky and the dirt and the sound of Chester's nasally laugh when he finds something particularly amusing. He knows the people around him, has murmured their names to himself in the quiet hours of the night when he has been left alone to his own devices. He may not know them as well as his Michael, but nonetheless, he knows they exist. They have life. He knows plants and bugs and some of the science behind them. He knows how things work – like the locking mechanism on the cage in the corner, the hinges screwed into the door, and the pens and pencils Michael uses to help teach him to read. He knows that reading is the understanding of words upon paper.

He knows all of this because he is overly curious and something inside, some deep desire insisting from the back of his head, pushes him to question _everything._ Sometimes he gets the impression that he has done it all before, which is very disorienting.

The first time he was presented with a comb, he had stared at it for a long moment in deep thought because he knew, somehow, what it was for. What it was. He _knew_, but he couldn't begin to comprehend _how _he knew. Being so confused, and by extension threatened, he had snapped the comb in half, flung it across the shed and snarled wordlessly at it from his huddled spot in the corner.

Instances like that were happening quite often lately, and he could see his fits were wearing on Michael to the point that dark shadows were beginning to appear below his worried eyes. But how could he make him understand? He didn't know any more than Michael, least of all how to communicate it.

He feels upended and twisted in knots, even though his feet remain planted on the floor and his body properly intact.

As the days pass he becomes even more wary and even a bit hostile. He does not mean to, the looks Michael gives him in response to a particularly savage growl or menacing hiss nearly wrench the heart from his chest in shame and regret (how does he know what those even _are?_), yet it feels as if he cannot control it.

Sometimes there is a voice in his head that speaks of things he shouldn't be able to understand, even though he does. And it comes randomly, without any kind of warning whatsoever.

The day before, he was once again sorting the colorfully shaped blocks into the accompanying cube. By now the practice was boring since he knew shapes and colors and understood that a square only fit in the square slot, not the triangle or circle one.

But then that voice in his head –

_there are four blocks_

– began speaking again, telling him to take one block away and –

_now there are three left, because I subtracted one_

– then to put them back once more. It told him to count numbers –

_four blocks minus one is three and three blocks minus one is two, but two blocks plus two is four and four divided by two is two_

– to use his fingers to count even higher than the number of blocks in front of him, and it was only when he reached seventy-eight that he suddenly stopped and stared in horror down at the plastic blocks before him.

He smashed the cube when he realized the voice in his head was his own.

_what am i_

* * *

He counts the days he has been locked inside the shed by drawing lines with a black marker on a piece of paper one afternoon when both Michael and Chester left to get dinner. Or perhaps they were questioning that little boy again, the one who keeps slipping in at odd hours and talks to Zero in excited whispers.

Not that he minds, Henry –

_is a cute kid, looks like Jackie sometimes_

– Henry talks, but he doesn't expect a response. Zero believes the boy doesn't think he can.

The tally marks (what?) add up to eighty-four days. Three months and three weeks, give or take. It feels as if he has been locked up for much, much longer than that. He misses the open air with a sudden ferocity that he has to grip the flimsy table he is hunched over to keep from curling up and howling in pain.

What does the sun even feel like anymore? Has he forgotten? He knows it is colder now than when he was captured because the freezing air seeps in through the shed every hour of the day, and when Michael or Chester come inside, they bring with them a blast of wind that condenses the air in front of Zero's mouth in a hot puff of vapor. The space heater Michael dragged in some days ago lessens the chill immensely, though.

_can't stay cooped up like this much longer or i'll go crazy_

Zero clenches his eyes shut and wills his own thoughts to cease. What he wouldn't give for the simple-mindedness of before, from the days when he knew nothing beyond survival and blind instinct.

A whimper escapes past his clenched teeth and he drops his forehead down against the table with a muffled thud. The marker falls from his slack fingers and rolls off to the floor. He doesn't bend to pick it up, instead he remains like he is for a long time and forces himself to breathe evenly rather than flying into a panic like he so desperately wants.

Suddenly, he wishes Michael were there. Though the human can't make sense of what is happening, his presence is a comfort Zero craves almost as much as he wishes for his freedom.

And when did he even begin to understand all the delicate intricacies of something as complex as freedom?

He doesn't know how much time has passed when Michael finally does return, a laugh bubbling from his mouth at something Chester has said as they walk through the door together, and sees him thrown over the table like a blood sacrifice poorly presented at an altar.

"Zero!"

Something inside his chest loosens, unwinds, at the sound of Michael's voice. Feet pound across the short distance to where he is and he doesn't shake off the hands that pull at his shoulders, choosing instead to follow through with them and collapse into Michael's chest.

He smells the spice of the soap Michael uses on his human's skin, and he draws a great deal of comfort from it. Michael guides him down to the floor and holds him steady, smoothing his hair from his forehead and checking his temperature.

"What's wrong with him?" Chester asks, kicking the door shut so that the padlock bangs against the door without locking in place.

Michael shakes his head. "I don't know. He's been acting so weird lately. Guess this can just go on the list."

Zero closes his eyes and slowly spreads his legs out until only his head is cradled in Michael's lap. He hears Chester sit nearby and feels him gently begin probing at his stomach and feeling the inside of his wrist for a steady pulse-beat. He sighs as Chester evaluates his condition.

"Well, he ain't sick. Nothing that I can see, anyway. I mean he's eating fine and getting plenty of fluids. Definitely not getting enough exercise, though, but there's not much we can do about that."

"You think that's what's bothering him?" He feels Michael tense up a little, and he opens his eyes to slits so he can peer up at the two of them. "Because he's caged up all the time?"

Chester shrugs. "Could be. Maybe he's depressed, you know? I didn't think zombies could be depressed, but I didn't think they could eat with a fork either until he came along, so. Whatever."

"Be serious."

"Dude, no, I totally am. That would explain his behavior lately. The tantrums and the sadness? He's kind of like a pissed off toddler who just got grounded for the day because his mom caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Except he's been grounded for a lot longer and forced to stare at our ugly mugs day in and day out for, like, ever."

They lapse into a pregnant silence and Zero opens his eyes wider to stare at them. How can he make them understand? He feels a growl threatening to come up as he lays there, helpless and miserable.

Suddenly, he lurches back to his feet and snatches the piece of paper from the table and shoves it in Michael's face. The human flinches back and eyes the paper warily before taking it. He stands up as well, shadowed quickly by Chester who closes in and tries to make sense of the marks on the paper.

"What is that supposed to be?"

Michael shakes his head and looks back up at Zero worriedly. "I don't – what is it? What is this?"

Zero scowls and even shows his teeth a little, jabbing a finger at the paper and then swinging his arm around to point at the door. It takes him a second, but he manages to growl out a mangled "Ffffrr-ee", begging Michael to understand his desire to be outside.

Both men stare at him with looks of confused worry as it dawns on them exactly what he is asking for. Free. Freedom. Chester looks back down at the paper and rubs a finger back and forth over his bottom lip in thought.

"He was counting, Mike. See? They're tally marks counting how long you two've been here." A frown works itself onto Michael's face and deepens even more at Chester's words. Zero gazes back at him imploringly. Did he understand yet? "He wants out. Outside, anyway."

"But he can't, they'll kill him." He hands the paper off to Chester and steps closer to Zero, slowly shaking his head with an apology written all over his face. Zero's face crumples. "I'm sorry, Zero. You know I am. You know I'd let you out if we could, but we just can't. If anybody saw you walking around, they'd…fuck, they'd skin you alive."

Zero can see the pain etched into his human's face as clear as anything, but it doesn't change the situation at all. It doesn't take away the constricting feeling in his chest threatening to crush him from the inside. He _needs _to get outside – or else he will go insane because of his own voice in his own head that won't leave him alone.

His throat works silently around words that refuse to form in his mouth and he wrings his hands into the front of his sweater. Trapped. Prisoner. Caged. These words he understands, these words he knows backwards, scrambled and upside down. They are him in every sense, and it is _killing_ him.

Michael reaches for him, and he can see in the human's eyes that he wants to make everything better, but he isn't. He _isn't_.

He almost allows himself to be pulled back in again, let Michael kiss away the fear with gentle lips and push it all away with warm hands. He knows Michael can make him forget for a little while. He can let this unsettled feeling be covered up for the night and simply lock it away to fret over once again in the morning.

But he just can't, anymore.

He closes his eyes and whimpers miserably, senses flooded by Michael's scent a split second before he feels a soft, familiar mouth against his own. If he knew how to cry, he knows he would burst into tears right then.

"Plll…sss," he tries, his voice nothing more than a whisper. Michael's mouth twists in sadness against his own and hands try to unclench the fingers still twisted in the front of his sweater. He tries again, and this time, he manages to get the whole word out. "_Please_."

He knows Michael will refuse just like he has been, and just like he knows he will be denied, he also knows that it's for his own safety. But after so many months locked away he can't help but want to toe that line of danger. It's been long enough. He's done.

Michael's hands tighten around his own. He breathes in deeply – and then wrenches away. He keeps his eyes down so he doesn't have to see the look of raw hurt echoing from his human's eyes, and leaps across the shed to the unlocked door.

At his back he hears Chester and Michael both yell in protest, hears them rush at him, but he's quicker. He throws open the door and flings himself out into the darkening evening like the hounds of hell are biting at his heels.

_oh my god oh my god run faster i can breathe!_

* * *

Maggie

The bottle clinks prettily against the others on the floor, adding to the multicolored pyramid that has been in the process of being constructed for the past couple of hours now. It wobbles precariously, and isn't even settled before another one is cracked open and hissing in the quiet room.

"You've had enough."

Buck peers at her through glassy eyes as he tips the bottle back, swallowing deeply. She scowls and crosses her arms.

"Damn it, Buck. You can't keep doing this to yourself. It's reckless and stupid and it's destroying you. When was the last time you even looked in the mirror, you look like a walking corpse! Everybody is going to start thinking you're a monster."

His only response is a slow blink and another deep pull.

Maggie grinds her teeth and has to take a moment to gather her self-control. When she speaks again, her voice is tight and measured. It's not the first time she's had to stand here and demand Buck stop trying to drink himself dead, which is precisely why her temper is threatening to boil over. This is the last straw.

"You won't tell me what's going on with you, so I don't know how to help. But you have to stop this." Again, she doesn't get any reaction. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she stares at her husband, frightened by his behavior. He had been like this for weeks now, each night drinking a little more and a little more. Maybe she could handle it better if he would just _talk _to her, but unlike any drunk she had ever seen, Buck remains stubbornly quiet under the influence.

As if he isn't bad enough sober; it's like pulling teeth to get the man to talk on a good day. With a bottle in his hand, his surliness is ten times worse and does nothing but make Maggie stress and worry even more than she usually does. Forgetting that there is a zombie apocalypse right in their front yard, now she has a husband that apparently wants nothing more than to follow rabbit holes to the bottom of every whiskey bottle in camp.

The stress isn't good for the baby.

That last thought sends a tear spilling over her cheek. She doesn't want to cry, not in front of Buck. Not in front of anyone, really. Weakness. You don't show weakness in a place like this. Or get pregnant either, she thinks bitterly. Obviously mistakes are just her forte lately.

She thinks, briefly, that maybe she should have waited to tell him. Or not told him at all, there are options she could've taken. The world may be going to hell in a hand basket but they did have a few doctors in camp. Doctors that specialized in certain…areas. If she wanted, she knows she can go to one of them. At least, she _could _have gone to one of them. It's too late now.

Was that what was wrong here? He was pissed at her because she'd managed to get knocked up during the apocalypse?

Unbidden, another tear slips down her chin and drops to the dusty floor. Buck follows it with eyes that are far too aware for someone who has consumed as much alcohol as he has. When he looks at her again, there is regret hiding in there somewhere.

Regret, and the fear that has been there since her brother rolled into town. At first she believed Buck was afraid that he would lose her, and it had given her a little pep in her step, a new smugness behind her smile – but then, over time, she realized the fear was not of losing the love of his life. No, it was for that _thing_ they'd dragged in with her brother. The monster that Chester was using as a test subject in that ugly shack of his down by the perimeter gates.

It isn't strange that Buck fear something like that monster, that isn't what disturbs Maggie so badly. It is the type of terror that rubs her the wrong way. If she didn't know any better, she'd say he almost knows something about that thing, that terrible beast.

"I don't know what to do," she whispers suddenly, her voice cracking on more tears. She lays a hand on her belly. She's showing now. Only a little bump, but it's there and pretty soon people are going to know. "I just don't know. You won't tell me what's going on with you and I'm not going to – I _can't _sit back and watch you kill yourself."

Buck is deathly still in his chair behind the formica table. She sniffs wetly and turns on her heel, snatching up the first coat she can get her hands on and pulling it on in quick jerks.

"I'm leaving," she snaps. "Obviously you don't care about me, or the fact that I'm fucking pregnant with _your _baby, but whatever, Jackson." At the use of his given name, Buck finally snaps out of his stupor and stands drunkenly from the table. He hip checks it hard as he comes around it and makes an abortive movement to grab her, stammering out a half-hearted "Wait", but Maggie steps out of reach. "Screw you!"

She's slipped out the door before he can even manage to beg her to stay. Not that he would have, but she desperately wishes he would at least try.

He doesn't.

* * *

Zero

The sun has long since slipped down behind the horizon by the time he slows down enough to take in his surroundings. Thick clouds blanket the butter-yellow moon and cast the world in deep shadow. The freezing air hints at the threat of coming snow, and it isn't just a gentle fall that's teasing on the winds. It's a blizzard. He shivers pleasantly at the thought, somehow realizing he likes storm clouds and wild weather patterns without knowing how.

_dad would take us all hunting in this kind of weather_

The high reaching fence that surrounds the compound is only a few yards in front of him. Beyond that, the familiar dips and rises of valleys that lead back to where he caught his first glimpse of Michael patiently wait. He could follow their path right back to the beginning, he thinks. It wouldn't be that hard. He could get over the fence and never stop running.

_Peter got frostbite one year in his toes_

He knows in the deep crevices of the city he used to roam waits those like him. Or not like him. He doesn't feel connected to the others like he used to, anymore. From the start he was an outsider squatting with them, hoping to form some kind of familial bond, but they never did accept him. He remembers being bitten and scratched, tossed around like some kind of chew toy. And for what?

_mom was so pissed_

Did they sense the difference in him? That weird, anatomical glitch that stopped him from going completely feral? Could they see it?

He looks down at the dirt beneath his shoes. For a moment, he simply just stares at them, the rough black material and laces closed around his feet. Michael has been insisting he wear them –

_Peter hated wearing shoes but i didn't and i never got frostbite like he did_

– and up until now, he has never questioned why. It felt normal to pull them on over a pair of socks, to knot them tight so they wouldn't flop off when he walked around the shed. But _why _is it normal? How does he know what normal is? He frowns and crouches, fumbling cold fingers over the double knot _he _had tied. He had known what to do without being shown.

But _how?_

_Shaun taught me because i tripped and fell on his space panorama _

He passes a hand over his eyes and stills. Slowly, he takes his hand away from his face and stares at that, too. Left hand. Five fingers. Long, tapering off into chewed off nails. He makes a loose fist and turns it over so he can look at the knuckles. There are tiny scars there, making the skin calloused and tough like hide.

Without knowing why, he raises his fist and presses it to his cheek, against the scar he knows is there. He closes his eyes and stays like that for a long, quiet moment. Tentatively, he stops trying to shove away the terrifying thoughts circling like carrion birds in his head and welcomes them with an open mind.

"_left, right, left, uppercut, that's it!"_

The stale scent of sweat and cheap deodorant. A platform sectioned off by plastic red ropes. The rush of adrenaline, the feeling of complete and utter control of every movement in his body. His hands and the arches of his feet wrapped in white tape. A piece of rubber shoved in his mouth, molded perfectly to the shape of his teeth.

"_c'mon, squirt, hit me like you want to kill me."_

And just like that, he remembers _everything_.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that before someone finds him. He doesn't even hear their quick, short steps approaching him from behind. A small hand lays on his shoulder and squeezes, coaxing him to turn around until he is face to face with bright, worried eyes.

"Are you gonna leave?" Henry whispers, and Zero can sense the sadness in his voice. He can see the tears gathering in the boy's too-big eyes. "I heard Michael and Chester calling for you down by the trade circle. I figured you were gonna try and run away."

Zero drops his fist and rests his elbows on his knees, arms dangling between them. The boy sniffs and rubs his nose with a tiny wrist, curling the fingers of his free hand into the hood of Zero's sweater. He tilts his head slightly to the side, bird like, and scrutinizes the boy's face.

Henry smiles a little and almost giggles. "You don't have to go, right? You can stay with me. We can share my room and I know Aunt Gemma won't mind a bit. She can't see or hear so good anyway."

He wishes he could explain to the boy what's going on, that he's not a pet that can be hidden under the bed. He wants to talk to him. He wants to have a full conversation and share everything he has remembered, talk about the life he lived and about…about how he died. He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again. Where does he start? _How _does he start?

The clouds suddenly break and cast an orange glow over Zero's face, chasing away the shadows. Henry's jaw drops open in surprise and, slowly, he touches the edges of Zero's eyes with trembling, cold fingertips. "Oh," he breathes. "You're…"

Zero never gets the chance to hear whatever it was Henry wanted to say, because right then a terrified screech rips through the night's quiet air and shatters the blessed silence with a vengeance.

Henry yelps at the sudden noise and flinches as Zero grabs him by the arm, trying to pull him back in case of danger. He had only meant to protect the boy. He had only meant to keep him safe from whatever threat had decided to rear its ugly head.

But, to Maggie, who had been taken a lonely walk around the camp to clear her head and escape Buck's awful behavior and her own grief, it seems as if a monster is trying to attack some small, defenseless child who had been playing too close to the fence.

"Let him go!" she yells, her hand closing around the chunky pistol she keeps stuffed in the belt of her jeans, and whips it out in front of her with both hands. "Don't touch him. Help! Somebody, help me!"

Zero gapes and immediately tries yanking Henry behind himself to shield him from the gun. The boy stumbles from the sudden pull and falls to the ground with a cry of pain.

"No!" Henry coughs, waving his arms in a panic. "Stop, stop! He's not – "

"_Get off him!"_

Zero is breathing hard and sweating, his eyes locked on the pistol aimed right at him. He has no clue how to fix this. The woman thinks he's – is convinced he's some kind of monster. She's going to _kill _him.

_say something say something say something_

He tries to speak but the words catch in his throat. He can't. He's frozen in complete and utter terror. This isn't right, this isn't _right._ Michael, where is Michael? Why did he ever run away from Michael?

He's holding Henry down with hand and he feels the boy start to struggle. "Please!" the boy screams. "Maggie!"

_she's going to kill me!_

Zero lurches to his feet and throws his hands up as if to ward her off. The sudden movement only terrifies the woman even more and, reflexively, her fingers slam back the trigger.

There is one brief, sudden flash of cold terror that surges up from deep within Zero's chest and floods over his entire body at the unmistakable report of a gun. And then, nothing.

Zero's head snaps to the left. He feels his body spin and he flings out his arms to stop it all, but the world tumbles impossibly around him and he knows it's over. Something is horribly wrong with his head. He feels himself fall and smack the ground with bone-jarring finality.

_no no no please no…no…_

Screams fill the night and obliterate the compound's easy peacefulness like it's nothing. In seconds, he's swallowed by a wave of blackness and abrupt silence.

* * *

**A/N: **See? That last update wasn't a fluke, I'm really back! I would never abandon you precious few who stuck around!


	14. History of a tragedy

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Fourteen **

_History of a tragedy_

* * *

They were complete nightmares growing up. More than once, the entire neighborhood had called the authorities on them for 'disturbing the peace' or for destructive behavior. Sometimes vandalism, but only if the recipient deserved it (going by their own judgment, of course). The threat of being thrown in a juvenile detention center became so common that if it hadn't been used at least once during the day, such a thing had to be rectified before bedtime by raising a little hell.

It was entirely because of them that their mother had grey hair by the time she was forty. It was also because of them that she didn't have the spare cash to go to the hair salon and get it dyed every couple of weeks. Any extra income went toward attempts at repairing whatever damage they had managed to cause. Despite their constant derelict state, however, their dad did somehow manage to always have a hidden bottle of scotch stashed in his study. And the bills were never late, so it wasn't like they were hurting for money exactly, they just didn't have the little bit of extra used for frivolous things like home décor or video games.

Mom was an English teacher at the local high school and dear ol' dad was a major heart surgeon at the hospital on Main. The pay was steady enough to put food on the table and clothes on everybody's back, but not much else. Extracurricular activities either had to be paid out of their own pockets or simply invented out of thin air.

Naturally, most of the 'fun' they had was thought up on the spot. It didn't take long before the whole town began to realize who they were. "Those damn Anderson boys," the townsfolk would hiss, witnessing their most recent conquest (which could range anywhere from tying bed sheets to two poles and using it as a parachute for skateboarding through town during a hurricane warning, to releasing all of the cows down Main Street in a giant stampede during the town's annual cattle fair in protest of organized religion).

It got to the point that when it happened to be one of their birthdays, the town would come close to shutting down out of fear of what the boys were planning to do in celebration. Needless to say, they were a little tight-knit band of hellions and very well known for it. But they were close, as close as any family could hope to be. Nobody ever really argued despite all the trouble they got into. Their parents loved them to death and valiantly tried disciplining them as they grew up even though it was a lost cause.

After they had all bypassed the age of thirteen, their dad had thrown his hands up one night at dinner and the laid down the 'law'. So long as they didn't murder, maim or similarly dismember someone or themselves, didn't do drugs, attended school and maintained their grades and so long as they attended church with their mother every Sunday, everything was kosher. The boys would still be grounded for things, naturally, but it was pretty obvious by then that the phrase 'boys will be boys' had been taken to heart and used like a practice. There was no hope of taming them, not unless the boys themselves chose to be.

And so they grew up a bit wild, but reigned in enough to stay out of serious trouble. They combed their hair and buttoned their shirts every Sunday morning for their mother. Their grades were passable, sometimes even exemplary in Shawn's case.

There were four of them, only a few years apart in age. Their mother claimed she used to be a little wild herself in her golden years, to which their dad simply smiled behind his mug of coffee and continued reading his medical journals and the boys gagged and made such a fuss that she never did get any further in the story of their individual conceptions.

Peter was the youngest. They all teased him about being the baby and a momma's boy, but after he turned nine and stole their mom's car for the first time, they said it with a certain amount of respect and even a bit of awe. Sure, he might have reversed it right into the flagpole in the front yard, but he'd _stolen a car._ Besides, he perfected the art when he got older and Mom never suspected a thing.

Two years ahead of Peter was Shawn. Each of the boys had their own little niche, their so-called label, within the 'band of brothers'. Shawn was the brain behind each of their operations. He was the reason the cattle stampede had been such a success – who knew herding a bunch of dumb cows could be so scientific? He'd maintained a 4.3 GPA all through high school and his teachers mourned all that potential going to waste. They swallowed their tongues though when that score shot up to a 4.5 in college, and he became a wildly successful surgeon right next to their dad.

And then there was Dean. Three years ahead of Shawn and a year behind the oldest. He wasn't the smartest or the cutest like his younger brothers, but he was some kind of special in his own right. He never did do anything particularly enthralling, not until he was fourteen when some older kid from out of town blew in and started beating up kids at the elementary school. It only took one little bruise on Peter's cheek to send Dean into a flying rage.

He'd fell on the kid like a rapid dog in the school parking lot, and probably would have seriously injured the other boy if his brothers hadn't been there to pull him off. The bully never did try anything again and pretty much avoided the Andersons like a plague after that, but the fight had done something for Dean. It had given him his 'niche'. He was a protector, a natural fighter, and after that day almost every free moment he had was spent downtown at Moose Knuckles, a gym that specialized in mixed martial arts for both local MMA and UFC competitions. He excelled.

Jackson, the oldest and fifteen at the time of the fight, spent just as much time at the gym with Dean as his personal trainer. He was their leader and each of the brothers knew they would blindly follow him into whatever delicious idea he'd thought up without hesitation. Out of the four, he and Dean were probably the closest, though. Dean was the only person in the world who got away with calling him 'Jackie', and Jackson was the only one who could beat Dean in a fist fight. So they trained and fought and improved together until Jackson turned eighteen and joined the Marines.

The decision nearly broke their mother, but Jackson was legally an adult and could do whatever he wanted. Dad was proud, though. He glowed and puffed with pride and went around town showing off Jackson's pictures after he'd been shipped off for training like a strutting cock among a harem of hens. Shawn didn't like it and believed Jackson was only signing himself over to get shot in the face, and Peter was much like their mother with the way he worried all the time. He fretted like a little girl, which was kind of expected since he was only thirteen, almost fourteen, at the time.

Dean, though, he wasn't sure what to think. Sure, he was proud of his brother, and he'd miss him, but it kind of felt like someone had cut him off at the knees when Jackson left. So he threw himself into the gym even more than usual just to take his mind off of it. By the next year, he'd managed to land an apprenticeship with a UFC coach and subsequently apply to the UFC organization. His acceptance letter came within months of his sending in his application tapes once the bigwigs saw how he grappled.

Shawn went away to college to study medicine when he was only seventeen, which came as no surprise to anyone. He was accepted into Johns Hopkins University and blew through his classes like they were nothing. A lot of job offers came his way, some of which were impressive enough to raise a few eyebrows back home. An Anderson boy? Making a name for himself? Old Miss Jenkins at the end of the street nearly went into shock when she heard the news. This was the same boy who had duct taped roller skates to one her cats' feet and sent it careening down a hill into a sandbox. And now he was going to be a doctor? For a week she kept glancing out the window expecting pigs to be flying around her house.

Peter kept good on the 'law' and stayed in school after his older brothers left. His grades were passing level and stayed that way no matter how much his mom fussed at him to apply himself more. It was obvious to everyone he just wasn't interested. He had the potential, but not the drive. Most, if not all, of his focus was centered around the blond-haired, blue-eyed bombshell Jennifer that was the daughter of the town's mechanic at the edge of town.

It was only happenstance that Peter got caught up in the cars and broken motors lying around the mechanic's garage after spending months around the place drooling after Jenny. He got the girl after a while, and even bagged himself a job under Mr. Martin as his protégé. His presence in school was tolerated at best after that. For him, the option to further his education in college wasn't even on the table; he would work in the garage with Mr. Martin and, eventually, take over the place for his own.

With only one son left in their nest, the Andersons took the opportunity to take a breather. They settled into a comfortable existence after so many years of raising devil spawn. Mrs. Anderson joined the neighborhood book club and Mr. Anderson spent every Thursday night playing poker and having a few drinks with a couple of buddies from work. They even had date night once a month.

They kept in touch with their three older sons regularly, smiling through the updates and giving sound advice over the phone when their boys were in need of it. Their small hick town even managed to stop being so jumpy after all the shenanigans those boys had pulled. It was the apple pie kind of life only ever seen in the movies.

So it came as twice the shock when one day it was all over. Just like that. When the announcements were made and the quarantine zones went up, the Andersons were lucky enough to be in a Green Zone. Safe. At least, they thought they were.

Peter was barely seventeen when it happened, still in high school. He helped his dad board up the house and stockpile food in the cellar. It took two weeks before all the boys came home again for the last time. Shawn raced back from his small practice a few counties over and Dean took one of the last trains running out of Los Angeles instead of going through with his middleweight championship fight. It took longer for Jackson to make it back since he'd just returned from his second tour in Afghanistan and was still in the debriefing status.

When they all finally did make it back, their mother wept for three days straight. Dad drank. The boys sat together in the living room, stricken and silent. Tentatively, they began trying to formulate strategies and survival plans. Obviously they couldn't stay in the town, they would have to get out and try and make it to a militarized zone. People were being evacuated there and taken to safe places.

It was too late. They knew it, too, but there was still that blind hope pushing them to try anyway. Within the week the neighbors began acting strange. Fires started on Main Street. Raids and break-ins and vandalism broke out all over town. People were losing their minds both to the infection and their own blind terror. It only took a few days before the town was declared lost.

Once the National Guard pulled out, things went to hell pretty fast. Their dad was the first to become infected after going outside with Shawn to gather wood for the fireplace since the electric had been cut off. Some joker had shambled around the storage hut and coughed right in his face, slobbering out spit and blood right down Mr. Anderson's throat. It took only minutes before he was lost and helping the spitter attack his own son.

Mrs. Anderson had been watching through slits in the boarded up windows and began screaming and clawing at the barriers. Before her other sons could stop her, she'd managed to rip the plywood from the back door and stumble out onto the porch. Peter grabbed the shotgun from the kitchen table and shot their dad through the skull, splattering his brain all over their pretty white porch before he could rush any of them.

But Mr. Anderson had already managed to bite off a chunk of his wife's throat before getting his head blown off, and while Peter cried and sobbed in the doorway trying to pull their mother back in, Jackson and Dean were fighting to shove her back out. Her struggles turned vicious and feral, as did the noises coming from her ripped-apart throat. Peter cried even harder and was nothing but dead weight by the time his older brothers managed to slam the door shut in their dead mother's face and drag him back in.

"Dean, get the keys to dad's truck," Jackson had yelled, naturally stepping into that old leadership role and dragging their baby brother across the floor as the boy cried and choked and fought to get back to his mother who was scratching at the door. "Peter! Fucking calm down! She's gone, you hear me? Mom's dead."

Dead.

That word seemed to snap all three of them into the cold reality of what was actually happening. Mom and Dad and Shawn, they were all dead. They weren't coming back. Not alive, anyway. Jackson shoved his brothers out the door with the keys to the truck in one hand and the shotgun in the other. They didn't make it five steps past the porch before Miss Jenkins came out of nowhere, screeching and clawing at the air like a mad woman, her nails unnaturally long and as sharp as blades. Peter barely had time to blink before she'd cut his throat open with a single swipe and stabbed through his chest with the other, dragging him away. He was dead even before her teeth began to tear through the soft flesh off his face.

Jackson and Dean could only watch as they were forced to leave their baby brother behind. They managed to fight their way through a horde of stinking, rotting bodies to the truck. Familiar faces smeared bloody hands and tongues against the windows and beat at the truck, wanting in. Jackson gunned the engine and ran over men and women he'd gone to high school with, people who'd been on the receiving end of most of his childhood pranks, without any hint of emotion.

Dean sat beside him, completely silent.

They almost made it out. Ahead was the General Store that marked the end of town and, beyond that, open roads leading to god knows what. Jackson stomped on the gas and swerved to avoid bodies – both dead and alive – littering the roads. Dean clutched his brother's arm and braced the other against the dashboard to keep from smashing his face against it.

They never saw the car speeding up the intersection. When the little blue car shot out of the side street and T-boned their truck, neither of the brothers were prepared. The survivors in the blue car were thrown through the windshield and immediately fell prey to the horde storming through the town's center. Jackson and Dean were nearly crushed into the passenger's door as the truck absorbed the impact and slid off the road into the General Store's front display window. The horde didn't follow, too distracted with the squirming bodies from the devastated Camry.

Before the dust had even settled, a body fell onto the hood of their truck with an ear-splitting scream. Jackson had lost consciousness in the crash and lay slumped over the steering wheel. At his side, Dean remained pressed flat against the door, wavering erratically between alertness and blacking out. Everything hurt. When he managed to open his eyes to slits, the body that had landed on the truck was creeping forward and snarling like a wolf going in for the kill.

Jackson was still out cold, and the beast was going right for him. Dean, somehow, despite his entire body feeling as if he'd been through a meat grinder, flung himself at the strange creature with a desperate cry. He jostled Jackson hard with a shout of pain, blocking his older brother with nothing but his body as the beast smashed the already destroyed windshield and broke through.

It pulled him out of the truck with inhuman strength and a snarl of rage. He fought. He fought with everything he had, and it even felt like he might get out of it alive at one point. But then the monster slashed with teeth and claw and opened up gash after gash like Dean was made of paper, and it became obvious he wouldn't make it out of their little town alive. He was drenched in red by the time Jackson came to.

"Go!" Dean had yelled, holding off the monster that had managed to get him on his back in the middle of the General Store and was trying to slash his stomach open. Dean could see his brother fighting to get out of the truck from his place on the floor. "Jackie, don't! Just get the fuck out of here!" He screamed in pain as the beast suddenly abandoned his clawing attack and flung itself at Dean's throat. Razor sharp teeth sank past skin in a spurt of dark, crimson blood.

Dean could see Jackson's stricken expression as he was forced to watch his little brother, the last bit of his family, his _best friend_, die in a pool of his own blood. Dean shut his eyes and screamed again, the sound piercing and raw with agony, wild enough to raise the hairs on Jackson's arms as he slammed the truck into reverse.

"_Go!"_

Jackson did. The last glimpse he had of his brother was the younger man being dragged by the neck into the depths of the General Store by a monster with bloody, gaping holes instead of eyes.

* * *

Buck

He hadn't been sure. Not at first. When they found Michael and his little pet scrambling around the remains of Wendover, the idea was to use the monster for testing and for research. They needed to understand the enemy, and the only way to do that was to understand how they functioned. But he never expected this. He didn't ask for this.

The scar on the monster's face is what gave it away, really. And maybe the fact that, unlike all the others they had found over the months, this one had eyes. But it was mostly that damned gash on his cheek. The one that looked like someone had sliced at him with a pair of knives and only just barely missed gouging out an eyeball.

But it hadn't been knives that had done it; it'd been a small hook and chain from a punching bag. Buck had been fifteen. It was his and his brother's first time at Moose Knuckles and the head trainer had given them free reign of the kick boxing room since the place was pretty empty.

Buck remembers watching his little brother – not so little, though, he thinks. Dean had always been fit; corded muscle over tanned arms and legs, cutting muscle lines along his back. He'd never been 'little' – zone in on the black bag hanging in the corner. They'd started with that one. Buck stood behind it and held it steady while Dean went to town on it.

The ceiling gave way real quick under the onslaught, though. Water damage and years of neglect weakened it to the point of it simply not being able to withstand the swinging and jerking jumps Dean inflicted upon the bag hanging from it. When it did fall, Buck had tried grabbing it around the middle to stop it from falling on Dean and possibly snapping an arm or, worse, his neck. But the bag weighed more than himself and he dropped it – mercifully – on the floor instead of his brother. The chains and hook, however, whipped down at a harsh angle and cut Dean's face open before he could even think of dodging out of the way.

They'd laughed about it later, marveled at the sixteen stitches he had needed and thought up ridiculous stories to tell people about how it had been received. Personally, Buck had liked the one about how they'd managed to get mixed in with the Russian mafia most of all.

Such a small, insignificant thing, that scar is. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did when they brought the strange faces into camp, and Buck tried for days to write it off as coincidence. But it hadn't been. A scar like that is one in a million; no one in the entire world would ever, _ever _have one like it. And, if that hadn't been proof enough of just who the beast had once been, there were his eyes. His fucking eyes.

Most nights, Buck sees them in his dreams, glowing like fire embers in the dark. His brother is grinning and laughing at him in the ghost of old memories and those strange tiger eyes are staring right through him. Their mother's eyes. Dean's. The color of burnt honey, golden and sun warm and striking. They are wildly exotic, beautiful mysteries burning with an inner smolder that simply purrs to those who take the time to look.

No one has their mother's eyes except Dean. Something like that didn't come from the infection. And no one has that damn scar except Dean.

It only took him a week to realize that. The beast they'd bagged was his dead brother and they'd locked him up to be tested on and picked apart like…well, like an animal. He knows they should have shot him through the head that first day in Wendover. They should have burned his body to ash and let the wild dogs chew on his bones.

But he'd stopped them. He'd convinced them that they needed answers and sent Dean to be caged and imprisoned within Chester's stupid little shed.

And then he'd condemned himself to a slow descent into madness. He knew Michael and his brother had struck up some weird kind of kinship, and he even knew that Michael was sneaking over there practically every day to be with him. What they were doing didn't interest him, he couldn't even begin to care. He was stuck on the amazing realization that his dead brother was really alive.

But Maggie cared. Jesus, the woman was hell bent on destroying Dean for capturing her brother's attention so thoroughly. Honestly, though, Buck didn't blame her. Who would want their family playing with clawed, fanged monsters? It was dangerous and beyond idiotic. It was suicidal.

He drinks every night to keep himself from running across the compound and beating on Chester's door. It tears him apart, knowing his brother is so close – but yet he's so terribly far away. He's not even certain that thing is even Dean anymore. There's this damned _hope _beating away in his chest like a frightened bird's wings. Insisting and pleading to hold back the death penalty only a little longer.

He keeps Maggie from flying off the handle as much as he can. He convinces her to just believe in him, trust him to handle things. Fuck, she is his _wife_, and he couldn't even manage to tell her that that thing is his brother. Or used to be. He doesn't know.

There is one thing he does know, though. He will not see his brother die a second time.

* * *

Maggie's screaming had roused the entire camp from their beds. The gunshot had them running for their own weapons and pouring down the paths to the gate expecting a fight. What they found was far from it.

Buck had already been weaving his way through the compound wanting to bring Maggie back home, regretting simply letting her storm out the way she had. He'd hurt her. When she had spat his name out like that, something he hadn't heard since the day his family died and he'd reverted to using the callsign the Marines had branded him with, like the name was a curse, and with her hand on her stomach like that…the guilt had nearly sent him to the floor.

He planned to tell her everything that night, reassure her that he could never hate her or blame her for getting pregnant. After all the awful, terrible things that were happening, his wife telling him she was going to have his baby seemed to be the one thing he'd managed to do right. He wasn't about let that walk out of his life.

Her screams had sent a cold chill down his spine, and he had started running toward the sounds before he'd even realized what he was doing. He was close enough already to whatever was happening so that when he skidded around the corner behind Maggie, he was just in time to watch his wife squeeze the trigger of her battered pistol and shoot his brother in the head.

The wind suddenly roars through the camp with the promise of a storm.

A boy scrambles away from Dean's collapsed body as Buck stands there watching, and joins in with Maggie's screaming. Residents pour onto the main thoroughfare with homemade weapons raised and terrified eyes scanning the area. A crowd forms a loose circle around Maggie and the body on the ground.

The boy, Henry, Buck realizes, is clutching onto his brother's clothes and shaking him. His small shoulders are quaking with heaving sobs that seem to tear through his small body with a vengeance. Nobody seems to understand what is happening, and for some time they all just stand there. Confused. Wary.

Shouts ring out across from Buck from somewhere toward the middle of the crowd, and he knows it's Michael even before the other man bursts through the throng and into the clearing. His face is ashen when he catches Buck's eye, of all the people, and then twists with something close to pain when he sees the body on the ground. A plume of blackish red blood is slowly creeping across the packed dirt.

Despite the distance, Buck can still hear the animal-like noise of pure anguish Michael makes as he stumbles to Dean's body and falls next to Henry. Numb, Buck watches Michael try to make his brother wake up, as if he'd simply fallen asleep and only needed a rough shake and slap to rouse him.

But he's not waking up.

Numb, Buck pushes his way past a few nameless faces and stops at Maggie's side. She's crying, he notices. She's still holding the pistol up in the air like a warning and, slowly, he reaches up and takes it from her. The barrel is hot in his hand. He throws it into the dirt.

"Michael?" she stammers, roughly wiping the tears away from her face and taking a step in her brother's direction. "Michael?" Michael's shoulders stiffen. He doesn't even acknowledge her. Scared and confused, she turns to Buck and places her hands on her stomach like she's going to be sick. He tries to tell himself she couldn't have known, that she _still _doesn't know what she's done. To her, Dean was nothing but a monster.

But something dark and resentful hisses that she would've done it anyway had Dean been himself, because she never liked the fact that someone else had Michael's attention besides her.

He shoves the thought away and destroys it right then, hating himself. There's no point in blaming Maggie for doing what any sane person would have done in her position – but what was her position, he suddenly wonders. He has to bit down harshly on his tongue to keep from drilling her with questions.

"Buck, what's going on?" she sobs. Around them, the crowd is beginning to break up into its groups. The worried and helpful edge toward Michael and Dean in huddles, hardened soldiers look to Buck for answers and the rest simply stare, worried and confused and just wanting someone to tell them what to do. He suddenly wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

"I don't know," he whispers roughly, slow like he's not sure how to speak and dragging a hand over his face. He presses his fingertips into his eyes until bright spots threaten to blind him. "Maggie, why? Why did you shoot him?"

She doesn't answer him, and when drops his hand she is staring at him like he's slapped her. Her eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot, face wet from tears and hair falling out of the sloppy pony tail she'd thrown it in. "Because it was a monster." The disbelief in her voice is loud enough to capture the attention of a few of those gathered nearby, and they stare openly at the two of them, eyes narrowed in suspicion or wide with fear.

Buck chokes back a sob as he looks at blood staining the ground around Dean's head. "No," he says, shaking his head. "No. He was my brother."

And Buck had let him die. _Again._

* * *

**A/N: **It makes me feel good to see I get reviews after all this time. Like, insane high. That feeling you get when you have candy for the first time in forever? Times it by ten, that's how I feel when I get a review. It's awesome.

Sorry for mistakes if there are any, I try to catch them all on my own but meh, sometimes FF likes to mess with me and take away words and things.


	15. Faith divides us, death unites us

It Starts With Desperation

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Faith divides us, death unites us_

Dean

* * *

It is testament to his good faith that he doesn't immediately leap from the table and start a ruckus the moment he becomes conscious of the fact that he is alive. Or perhaps it has absolutely nothing to do with faith and everything to do with how he's currently suffering from what is undoubtedly the worst headache known to mankind, and simply can't be bothered to do much more than groan in pain.

He decides right then it has nothing at all to do with faith.

"Oh, my God," someone says quietly. A crash, like a chair falling to the floor, and then, louder, "Oh, my God!" Feet scramble against creaking floors and a door is thrown open, banging back against the wall as they flee. The sound is piercing, blasting straight through his skull like…well, like a bullet.

He groans again and raises his arms to cover his eyes. There is so much light, he can feel it burning through his eyelids. His ears are ringing as if someone set off a bomb right by his skull. Everything hurts. Voices and pounding feet are rushing in his direction and he flinches, weakly trying to roll onto his side and protect his head in case they want to hurt him. A part of him is terrified of opening his eyes. What if the woman with the gun is waiting to shoot him again?

"Hand me the water, Henry. Right by the sink, yeah, thanks." Fingertips brush against his arm where it covers his face. "Hey, Zero? Can you hear me? I need you to drink this. Can you do that for me?"

He wants to say no. He tries to say no, but it just comes out as a garbled mess and he turns his face further into the bedding under him. A gentle but firm hand grabs his wrist and eases his arm down away from his face.

"Easy now, it's just me. It's Chester. I really need you to drink this now." A cup presses insistently at his lips and, after a moment, he obediently opens his mouth and allows the liquid to slide down his throat. He coughs, chokes on it, but recovers just as quickly. Belatedly, he notices it tastes weird and only has time enough to make a weak noise of protest before he's out again.

But not before he hears someone say, _"Go get Michael. He'll want to be here when he wakes up again."_

* * *

He doesn't die. By some crazy, illogical twist of fate, the bullet had only grazed the side of his skull instead of plunging straight through, leaving him with a nasty looking scar and an infection that had better chances of killing him than the piece of lead did. He's kept in the makeshift clinic in the middle of the compound for three weeks. During that time he's in and out of consciousness, riding the waves of a raging fever and suffering hallucinations vivid enough to send him into screaming fits. When he's lucid, Chester explains to him what's happening and helps him eat what little food he can manage. Mostly he sticks to liquids before giving in to the pull of darkness and blacking out again, over and over and over.

Due to supply shortage, most of the healing process is heavily relying on blind luck instead of medication and gives him a chance to become intimately familiar with the many levels of pain. Sometime during the middle of that first week he grabs Chester's arm during a lucid moment and begs for death. He wants it to end. He's out again before Chester can manage a response, though, falling through dizzying smears of dreams and reality.

Distantly, he's sometimes aware that Michael is there. He smells him. Feels when Michael washes him with cool rags and hears the familiar intonations and resonance of his breathing, the comforting timbre of his rough voice. Knows the touch of the other man's fingers against his own or pushing his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. He struggles to see him, to open his eyes so he can look up into those achingly familiar eyes, but it takes too much effort and he can never get past seeing blurs through the slits of his eyes that shut from exhaustion almost immediately.

Finally, his body stops trying to destroy itself and begins to heal. He stays awake for longer periods of time, though still suffers greatly from the fits. Chester chose to tie leather cuffs around his wrists to keep him from scratching at his face, and, once, he woke to a belt in his mouth because he'd almost chomped off his own tongue.

"It's because you're coming out of something more than just the bullet wound," Chester tells him one night. Michael isn't there. He doesn't ask where he's gone. "Your body has been through so much these past months. I mean, your organs are really damaged from what they've endured, especially your stomach and kidneys. There's nothing we can do about that, it's just something that will have to heal with time."

Mentally, however, is another matter altogether and is something Chester can't even begin to understand. "I don't know, Zero. Your mind has suffered such intense and constant trauma, I don't know where to begin. I don't even know _how _to begin."

So he continues to drown under the physical pain and scream through the mental agony that floods him every second of the day as the last vestiges of the deadly virus began to fade out of his system.

He is called Zero by both Michael and Chester. He responds to it, even though talking hurts and makes his throat feel as if he's swallowed jagged pieces of glass. He responds, but he knows that isn't who he is. He's not even sure _what_ he is anymore.

His name is Dean.

He's supposed to be dead.

* * *

Michael

Chester sits him down on the third night once the panic has had time to subside and allow him to think somewhat clearly. Apparently, Chester has done some digging and found out exactly what happened, so he fills Michael in with all the details. When he starts to explain Buck's involvement, his expression probably mirroring the disbelief on Michael's, things stop making sense.

As if they ever did.

Chester tells him that he'd gone to Buck to ask for medication and possibly an evac out of the compound to the military safe zones. They would have more supplies there and better prepared for Zero's wounds than Chester was. But Buck refused, not because he wanted 'the beast' dead like Chester originally believed, but because Buck wanted _his brother _to stay with him. Then, he'd let everything come spilling out.

"I got the feeling that he'd been holding it in for so long that he just couldn't anymore, you know?" Chester says, shaking his head. And he tells Michael everything that Buck had told him, everything about his family and where they lived and what happened to every person he'd grown to love. What he was forced to watch. How his dying brother had screamed at him to _go._

"Oh, my God," Michael mutters. "That's…this is all so fucked up."

"Yeah. His name is Dean, by the way. Dean Anderson. I just thought you should know in case he…well, in case he dies. At least you'll know who he used to be."

Michael goes to see his sister a few days later, and for the first hour all they do is stare at one another. It's like they're suddenly strangers and don't know what to say. It isn't supposed to be like this, he tells her. He says all he can think about is how Buck is sleeping outside the clinic in the dirt waiting to hear if he's going to lose his brother for a second time, and here Michael stands in front of a sister who isn't in danger of dying, but who seems so far away she might as well be.

It isn't right. When she starts to cry he doesn't move to comfort her, but he doesn't turn his back either. Before Zero – before _Dean_, he reminds himself – and before the apocalypse, he would've yelled and accused her and cut ties with her right then for hurting him. For wronging him. He wouldn't have cared about her because he has always been so selfish.

But things are different now, and though the end of the world kind of brings things into perspective, this goes further than that. It goes deeper. He doesn't know if he can forgive her because she knew how he felt. She knew he was desperate to find Dean and that he cared about the infected man. She knew, and despite that she fought tooth and nail to end Dean's life. But, in the end, she is still his sister and she is still the only family he has left.

He tells her all of this and watches her nod past the tears, listens as she apologizes and says she knows it doesn't make a difference right now. She tells him that she's pregnant. She confesses that she doesn't know if Buck will ever come back to her. "I would understand," she sobs, one hand on her stomach and one on her throat as if to choke the tears to a stop. "I really would. But I don't think I can live without him."

When he hugs her, it isn't like how it used to be. It's stiff and awkward and over quickly, but he loves his sister and he won't let her suffer alone. He whispers this against her hair and kisses her forehead before he leaves. Every night he returns and sleeps on the floor by her bed, not minding the creaky floors of the rundown cabin her and Buck have lived in all this time. Buck doesn't come home.

Michael's days are spent in and out of the clinic where they keep Dean. He talks until his voice is hoarse, even if though he isn't even sure if Dean can hear him. But he does it anyway, just so the man knows he isn't alone. Just so he knows Michael is still there.

As the days turn to weeks, Dean seems to get worse and Michael watches him fight fevers and infections and something inside nobody can begin to empathize with. Chester tells him that Dean is changing. That the virus is being flushed out like any normal virus would.

"It has run its course," Chester tells him. "Imagine it's like the flu, only this is like a nasty mutation of that. From what I've been able to figure out from him since you got here, and from the subjects people brought in before, I think I've got it figured out."

The virus isn't an infection like people have been calling it. Pathogenic bacteria wouldn't have been able to survive for this long and would have eventually died out on its own, or been defeated with antibiotics. A virus, however, is a parasite and needs a living cell to survive. It spreads, mutates, and only has one goal: to multiply. Had the sickness been bacteria, a cure would have been discovered long ago. But with a viral disease, there is no cure. A human's immune system must overcome the virus on its own.

"We can't fix it," Chester says as Dean moans and writhes against his restraints, delirious with pain. "We just have to wait. The whole world is just going to have to wait."

"Will everybody who's sick get better?" Michael asks, reaching out to hold Dean's seeking hand. Cold fingers immediately grip his in an iron hold.

Chester shakes his head sadly and takes Dean's other hand, though noticeably with more care. He gives Michael a haggard look. "No. Not everyone's immune system is strong enough to fight the disease." He pauses and looks down at Dean's shaking, sweat-soaked body. "A lot of people are going to die, Michael."

Michael stays for as long as he can, washes Dean with rags, and then he leaves. Outside, Buck sits against the wall of the clinic like he has been since the night they brought Dean in. Sometimes Michael sits beside him, listens when he talks and says a few words himself occasionally. Buck confesses that he hasn't yet gone inside to see his brother when Michael asks one afternoon, has only listened to his screaming from the outside.

"I don't think I can handle it," he admits. Michael doesn't say anything to that because he understands. He wouldn't want to watch Maggie suffering like that, either.

He brings Buck food and water because he won't accept it from anyone else.

* * *

Three weeks and two days later, Dean is eating and drinking on his own and is given permission to forgo the belt and cuffs that had kept him from hurting himself. Michael sits next to his cot in a plastic chair that hurts his back, but he doesn't care. He's too focused on watching those exotic golden eyes watch him back. Gone are the angry red rash marks that had marred the skin around the man's eyes, and in place of the disturbing blackness caused by the disease is healthy white sclera and tiny red veins pumping clean blood. Completely and irrevocably human.

He blows out a heavy breath and drops his head against the thin mattress, shoulders sinking in relief. A warm hand covers the back of his neck and gives a reassuring squeeze.

"Michael," Dean says, and his voice is both strange and familiar. Raw from disuse and hoarse, it makes him sound like a smoker. Chester had been making him drink honey to help with it. "Michael."

He gets the sense that Dean isn't really saying his name to get his attention, but just to simply have the pleasure of saying it as himself instead of what he used to be. Regardless, Michael lifts his head and watches Dean's lips curve upward at the ends into a wry smile. It's taking some getting used to, connecting this man as he is now to the beast-like person Michael had grown to know and care for. But they are the same. It's been Dean all along.

"I remember, you know," Dean muses. He still hasn't taken his hand from Michael's neck. "I know what I did to people. I remember what it felt like."

"Do you miss it?" Michael hears himself ask, and then quickly mutters a quick 'sorry'. Where had that even come from?

Dean shrugs off the apology. "Do I miss the killing? No. I regret it more than anything, and I don't think I'll ever get over the guilt. I did…disgusting things. I'll never forgive myself for that."

"You didn't know what you were doing."

They both go quiet, probably thinking the same thing. Why was Michael bothering to defend what Dean had done? The answer was obvious of course, and Michael colored slightly and averted his eyes to the wall over Dean's shoulder.

"Maybe not," Dean agrees after a while. "But that doesn't change the fact that I did it." He waits for Michael to meet his eye again before he continues, and the next words out of his mouth loosen something inside Michael's chest he didn't know had wound itself up tight with worry. "I remember you, too."

Michael goes very still, suddenly conscious of the small, reassuring circles Dean's hand is rubbing into the back of his neck. Fingers slip under the collar of his shirt and pluck at the thin leather cord there, following it around to the front of his throat and pulling it out between them. The copper washer glints innocently in the dim afternoon sunlight. He can't remember exactly when he'd started wearing it, but obviously Dean remembers for him.

He closes his hand over it in a loose fist and, with a slight tug, pulls Michael to him. It's effortless when they kiss, as if nothing ever changed, as if they are still the same as they ever were. When their mouths touch, Michael automatically tilts his head to slot his nose against Dean's. He feels familiar lips purse against his own and then fall open, wanting more.

How Michael ends up on the cot escapes him. He's too focused on the hot hands cupping his face and pushing through his hair, pulling him closer, to pay much attention. One moment he's sitting in his obnoxiously plastic chair, and the next he's hovering over Dean, conscious of the man's frail state.

Cognitive thought quickly throws itself from the window at the first swipe of a tongue against his own, and Michael moans helplessly in response. The force behind the kiss is staggering and needy, knowledgeable where before there had only been tentative curiosity. Just as Michael is wishing he could press down against Dean and melt through skin and bone, Dean is surging up with a shocking amount of strength and stealing the very breath from Michael's lungs.

Were he with anybody else, Michael would feel embarrassed by straddling another man's lap. He'd throw a fit at their hands gripping and kneading the muscles of his back and lower and he wouldn't let his head roll back as their blistering hot mouth pressed against his neck with teeth and tongue. He entertains the notion that he isn't ashamed because they've been here before. Dean is still Zero, Michael thinks. He is still the same person, even if in many ways he is completely different.

Michael is too distracted by the canines scraping over his pulse point and the hand running through his hair to put up much of a resistance when Dean presses him down into the rickety cot. His head hangs off the end and it's a far cry from comfortable, but he can't find it in him to really complain, not when a decidedly wicked mouth is nipping fire into his skin and hands are pushing his shirts over his stomach and smoothing back down over his jean-glad thighs, gripping behind the knees and jerking his hips into Dean's.

Michael hooks an arm around Dean's neck and pulls him into a bruising kiss, thrown by this new assertiveness that had been absent when the man was sick. This is who Dean really is. Michael pants and shudders against the other man, his own clothes the only thing standing between skin against skin since Dean had been divested of his clothes due to the fits drenching everything they dressed him in with sweat and blood.

Which only allows Michael to feel just how much Dean is already affected by all of this as he rocks into the kiss, hardened flesh trapped between their stomachs and begging for attention.

He doesn't worry about them being caught because nobody ever comes to see Dean. Henry stays home with his aunt, who nearly had a heart attack when she'd found out where he had been spending all of his free time. Chester is busy debriefing the compound on the virus' elements and strains. Maggie wouldn't dare. He doesn't even worry about Buck, who's probably still sitting outside waiting to be told that his brother is really going to live this time.

He doesn't worry because this is Dean and this is them, and he's not about to let these precious moments slip between his fingers.

Dean fumbles clumsily with removing Michael's shirts and he huffs out an amused chuckle before helping, tossing them to the dirty floor. Dean seems to be everywhere at once, mapping out every inch of Michael with steady hands and a hungry mouth. He allows Michael to paw at him return but is quick to pin his wrists when they get in his way.

Michael finds himself effectively cowed. He isn't in charge anymore, not like he used to be. Dean is in complete control of himself now and knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. It's a twist Michael hadn't expected and it leaves him pleasantly blindsided and on edge, constantly wondering what will come next.

"You have no idea," Dean whispers, his voice even more wrecked than usual. "Michael. You can't even imagine." An animal-like groan comes from the back of his throat as he nuzzles against Michael's stomach, tongue dipping into the sharp V leading into the worn and faded jeans he's wearing. "_God,_" he moans, and Michael decides right then that the pants have to go. Now.

Dean is still holding his wrists down as he rubs his face against his zipper, and Michael is relieved because he thinks now Dean will release them to unzip him and he can plunge his hands through that impossibly soft hair and mess it up even more than it usually is. He doesn't let him go, though.

A breath punches itself out as Dean starts mouthing against the obvious tent in Michael's pants. Heat pools low in his belly and sends out shocks throughout his system hard enough to make him dizzy. He keens, low and quiet, and pulls at his wrists until Dean relents and lets him go.

He twists his fingers into the man's hair and rolls his hips in time with the hot mouth kissing through the rough jean fabric. He feels fingers dip past his waistband, teasing the sensitive skin there before popping the button open and pushing the flaps apart just enough for Dean to release his hardening cock. There is hardly any time to process what is happening before Dean is taking him down his throat as if he's been born for it. Or has spent hours thinking, fantasizing and hoping for it.

Michael has to bite his wrist to keep himself quiet, breathing harshly through his nose as Dean somehow manages to work him up into a frenzy faster than seems humanly possible. In minutes he's bucking and writhing like a wild thing, shaking apart at the seams and sinking deep indentions into his own skin with his teeth. Dean holds him down with an arm across his hips, and then he does this _thing _with his tongue and Michael is done. He jerks and swallows a throaty moan, trembling pleasantly from the buzz as Dean's throat works around him until he's completely spent.

"Jesus," Michael breathes once he's able, face hot and body thrumming. Dean mumbles something that could be an agreement as he shuffles back and takes off Michael's boots, socks and pants with quaking hands. Michael swallows convulsively at seeing Dean still hard and leaking, his cock almost angry looking from the lack of attention as it bobs between his legs.

"C'mere," he says, tugging Dean to lay over him so he can cover that sinful mouth with his own. He can taste himself there, and it's bitter but not completely terrible. He sighs through his nose and cups the back of Dean's head, keeping him there and letting his legs part enough to allow one of Dean's to slip between.

The hard, heavy length of him nudges against Michael's hip, and he runs his hands down over a strong back and around to a lean, defined stomach. Dean gives a languid roll of his hips, grinding deliciously against Michael and inducing an impossible spark of arousal within him. He doesn't believe he can get it up again so soon, but Dean seems determined to prove him wrong.

He keeps up the slow, almost lazy rocking motions as Michael lets his head drop over the edge of the cot, staring at the opposite wall upside down. He feels Dean shift and place an almost chaste kiss to the washer that had fallen into the hollow of his throat just as fingers, sticky and warm, press between his legs and_ into_ him easy as you please.

He hadn't expected it, hadn't even prepared for it, but the intrusion is so gentle and slow that Michael doesn't even resist. He almost laughs as the sweet, sugary scent of honey teases his senses as Dean's hand works in and out of him, his mouth leaving equally sweet, teasing kisses down his chest and ribs.

"Is this okay?" Dean rasps, and when Michael lifts his head to look at him, it surprises him just how 'okay' it really is. Those hypnotizing eyes are gazing back at him, pupils blown so wide only a thin circle of gold is visible. Dean's lips are red and wet with spit, swollen from their kissing. He's flushed from the neck down to his chest with a sex flush that dries Michael's mouth and causes his throat to click when he swallows.

Speechless, he can only nod as another jolt of arousal bolts through his blood and stirs his spent cock with interest. His mouth drops open as Dean pushes his fingers in more insistently, purposeful. The honey he's using for lubricant is messier than anything Michael's ever seen and he briefly stresses about how sticky he's going to be after, but at least it's doing the job.

And, honestly, he doesn't mind all that much.

Michael openly stares at the other man, taking in the small frown he gets when he concentrates, the pink of his tongue as it swipes out to lick his lips and the twitching muscles in his arms that remind him of a nervous racehorse waiting to take off from the starting gate.

Carefully, he leans up and smirks when those strange eyes lock on him. "Dean," he says. It's the first time he's said it, the first time he's used it to refer to this man. Not Zero. Not anymore. Maybe never was. Just Dean. He reaches out and cups the back of Dean's neck, pulling him down into a bruising kiss as Dean's fingers curl and _push, _a pleading kind of whine that sounds all too familiar to Michael's ears falling from his trembling lips.

The sting when Dean pushes in has him twisting his face away with a sharp hiss, but Dean soothes a hand down his stomach and thigh to cup behind his knee, hiking it higher into the crook of his arm and the other over his shoulder as he plants a gentle kiss to the corner of Michael's of mouth in apology. He eases in little by little and Michael is helpless to shove him away, because under the burn and the pain there is this shaking fulfillment that leaves him breathless for an entirely different reason than the hurt.

Before long, he's melting into the slow push and pull grinding of Dean's hips into his own. The tame rhythm feels impossibly good, bowing his back with pleasure as he throws his head back. His mouth drops open of its own volition when he feels Dean's entire body roll in against his own, controlled and flowing like water.

He chokes and reaches out blindly, grabbing onto the juncture between Dean's neck and shoulder and squeezing. Dean only grunts at the grip so near a pressure point and rocks even further inside. Soon, his long, controlled thrusts become more erratic and punch soft gasping _ah's_ out of Michael. The new choppy beat judders him against the cot and has his toes curling, muscles trembling.

When had he gotten hard again? A sound suspiciously like a sob escapes before he can swallow it back and he takes himself in hand, pumping in time with Dean's stuttering hips. He wishes they could scream, because he would be shouting himself hoarse right then.

"Michael," he hears Dean groan again, his name coming out like a plead and promise painted in the space between them. Breathless, he tilts his head so he can see Dean, see those impossible eyes staring right at him, right through him to the places inside he never knew he was hiding until that very moment.

Dean's shimmering with sweat. His mouth has fallen open around a silent moan and Michael is trapped, over sensitized and over stimulated, strung out tighter than a coiled spring hovering at the very edge of the stairs. He's watching every thought flicker over Dean's face and recognizes all of them, can read the deep affection and staggering devotion behind those completely human eyes.

And he thinks, _oh. _

Because Dean's eyes are reflecting what his very own are mirroring.

When he comes a second time, it's right on the tails of Dean's own release and he feels his chest constrict and loosen, flooded with an indescribable sense of pure unadulterated _joy._

Inexplicably, it feels as if he's come to the end of an impossibly long, exhausting journey, and he's only just found the conclusion waiting for him within warm skin and a pair of honey-gold eyes.

* * *

**A/N: **What is this? I don't even. Epilogue is next, then we're done! Finally, right? That's what I'm saying.

Also, _Keenon_, you're a faggot.


	16. Epilogue: Three steps more

It Starts With Desperation

**Epilogue**

_Three steps more_

* * *

By all rights, the world ended the very day people started changing. No one should have to exist in a place where one has to worry about their best friend chewing through their gut while they sleep, or watching everyone they have ever loved suffer and die like mindless animals with no purpose save for consuming and destroying everything within sight. It's a living nightmare on the best of days. A horrifying reality the rest.

There isn't much good left, anymore. Vegetation has grown up over most of the past's impressive structures. Wildlife roams freely on the highways and through fancy suburbs. Where once mankind had thrived and dominated throughout the cities remains only a whisper; a terrified sob echoing down abandoned halls.

But here's the curious thing: there is still hope. Despite the hell that has swept through and devastated the very vestiges of what makes a person human, despite how there is hardly anything left of humanity to remind those left behind of what life used to be like, despite the heart-wrenching realization that nothing will ever go back to the way it was again – it is human nature to hope that it _will._

Some will scoff and turn their noses up, waving off the childish notion for such dreams. They probably deny feeling anything but contempt and acceptance for an inevitable situation. It's because of that disappointment they have – a fear of never recovering – that has them so jaded. They would not feel as much had they not hoped for a better outcome in the first place, if they still didn't believe, somehow, without even consciously realizing it, that this meaningless existence they now claim is all that they have left. Because the alternative is to lay down their weapon and walk straight into the lion's den.

Without that small spark of _something_, they would not survive. All that would remain would be husks with human faces, worse than the cannibalistic creatures roaming freely through the skeletons of dead towns. At least the sick ones have purpose and drive. People who have simply given up have nothing left.

It is because of hope that the camps have grown and spread throughout the territories. It's because of hope that people are at least _trying _to have a life. Militarized safe zones have begun to erect boundaries to help keep those inside safe. People are smiling more, laughing, loving in ways that had seemed lost for such a long time.

The camp that Michael had found refuge in combines with a larger one hundreds of miles away, one that has actual buildings and a few houses. The residents pack up their things and leave because the area has long since died and stopped offering reasons to stay. They name the camp Promise – an oath to the people that hope will never die.

It takes many months for things to settle into routine. The military leaves behind a solar powered satellite phone with the Mayor (an older woman who had taken care of the compound once Buck stepped down after the joining), pre-equipped with rescue contacts and GPS coordinates for travel access during a supply drop. The GPS, they said, is mostly for anyone wanting to travel between camps for trade or seeking family members.

At first, the concept had seemed entirely too dangerous. It didn't take very long for the more curious residents to attempt it, though, and soon people were coming and going from Promise loaded with weapons like they've been doing it for years. Strangers became close friends and some friends became strangers as they left and never returned, presumably reunited with family in other camps – or attacked on the trip there.

Agriculture becomes a booming trade. Medicinal herbs and home-grown vegetables fill trunks and sacks meant for sale. There isn't much technological based supply left, but what people have is used to further improve the community as a whole. People share. They help each other survive, because without someone at their back, death is quick to swoop in with gnashing fangs and deadly claws.

There is still no cure for the virus, despite tireless efforts to make one. Chester had spent weeks and weeks acting as a go-between for the camps explaining his findings of perhaps there never being one. After a year, he returned to Promise with a group of people hoping to help his research (that little Henry quickly joined despite his aunt's vehement protests. The boy had grown up.) Occasionally, they venture out into the wastelands and bring in a few infected. Those they bring back usually die from starvation or system destruction thanks to the virus completely exhausting the host's supply.

Sometimes, though…sometimes they live. Sometimes they show certain characteristics that hint at something not-quite-monster. They interact with people differently, hesitate when given the chance to decimate and destroy. They show emotion where other's suffering from the virus have no such reservations.

These are the ones that fall into comas that can last for weeks. They drown in their own sweat and scream through fevers that rage like furious wildfires, threatening to burn them out of their own bodies. They are never the same when the wake up. If they wake up. There have been a handful that didn't survive the pain and just died in their cots.

But for those that _do _open their eyes again, they either throw themselves back into the living with a desperate fervor, or wallow in the guilt and horror of what they remember. A few never remember. Maybe they don't let themselves, too afraid of what memories will resurface. Sometimes it's a combination of both.

There had been one person Chester named John Smith – because the man couldn't remember his name, nor anything of his life before the virus broke out. He was a clean slate. Impressionable. Very, very intelligent. The curious thing about John had been the fact that he couldn't open his eyes because he didn't have any. Claw marks around the tender skin of his eyes suggested he'd gouged them out himself at some point.

John wears a strip of cloth tied around his head now to hide the empty sockets, but he moves like a man who sees everything around him. He works beside Chester with his head down and always tilted slightly to the left, listening to everything around him. He moves by sound and touch, but mostly by scent.

Like John, there have been a few who have woken up with parts missing. One woman had lost a leg. Another, a few fingers. The discoveries were disturbing as well as intriguing, and spurred the theories of adaption and evolution, shaping new methods of helping those that were sick. Eventually it got to the point where nobody really knew who had been sick and who hadn't.

At the center of it all is Michael, one arm wrapped stubbornly around Dean's broad shoulders and a defiant look daring anyone to speak against them.

It's been a little over three years since Dean has recovered, and since then the two of them have done anything and everything to help Chester in his attempts at doing the same for others. They are never far apart, constantly aware of the other as if they are made up of the same whole.

They settled, just like the others, in Promise to carve out an existence for themselves. It's been good, too. Easy, like maybe that's where they were supposed to be all along. Dean's hair is much shorter than when Michael first found him, cropped in close to his skull in a way that accentuates the almost violent widow's peak he has.

He's also taken to letting this scruff grow out on his face that makes him look downright roguish, as opposed to Michael's smooth skin. Though he'll never admit it, Michael loves the rough scrape of Dean's thin beard against his own face, likes the pleasant shivers it shoots down his spine.

Maggie ended up having a miscarriage fifteen weeks into her pregnancy. She never really got over it, not that anyone blamed her. Michael still sees her regularly. They talk and laugh together, even though it's a bit hollow on her end and maybe a bit forced for him. Still, neither are willing to cut ties completely. Even Dean joins them, sometimes. He and Maggie get along fine, though it gets awkward since there's still the painful memory that she tried to kill him between them. They play nice, though, for Michael's sake.

Lately, a few rumors have been circling that she's been seen hanging around the market near some farmer's stand longer than necessary. Michael finds out the guy's name is Ben. He plans to set Ben down and have the necessary brother talk, complete with threats of violence.

Her and Buck didn't stay together long after the miscarriage. They still maintain a somewhat formal relationship, meeting up every couple of weeks to see what's new and spend some time together. It just wasn't meant to be for them, not when they both loved their respective brothers so much that it only hurt to be around each other, the constant reminder hovering in the corner of the room of how Maggie wanted Dean dead from the second she'd laid eyes on him and how Buck had kept his secrets drowned in booze.

As much as Michael had disliked Buck when they first met, he finds himself actually liking the bear of a man as the years pass. A part of him sometimes wishes his sister and Buck would've worked it out. Maybe they could've been happier for it. But they didn't and they won't, something he knows for a fact, so he doesn't let himself think about it all that often.

Dean, though, openly adores his brother, and they manage to make up for the lost time by being hell bent on spending just as much time as he and Michael do together. He calls Buck 'Jackie', much to Buck's endless irritation, and wrestles with him whenever he happens to stop by for a visit. Their cozy little house feels like a testosterone-fueled boxing ring after a while, and Michael wouldn't change it for the world. It's weird to let himself think that the apocalypse has probably been the best thing that's ever happened to him.

* * *

The sun is only just beginning to rise when Dean wakes. The one window in their bedroom is open, letting in the stuffy summer air and he turns his face toward it for some relief. He's sweating from the seasonal heat and from the body pressed against his back. Any attempts at going back to sleep are hopeless, he knows. Once he's awake, he can't go back to sleep. Especially when it's this hot. Michael can though, something Dean has always been jealous of him for. The man is perpetually lazy.

With a soft grunt, he drags himself out of bed and quietly pads to the trunk where they keep their clothes. He pulls on a faded gray wife-beater and a pair of black running shorts. Michael doesn't so much as stir from the noise he makes dressing and, with a grin, Dean moves to his side and kisses him chastely on the mouth. It quickly deepens, however, when Michael surprises him by sucking on his bottom lip and giving it a sharp nip.

"I didn't know you were awake," Dean murmurs when he manages to break away several minutes later, already considering jumping back in bed despite the unbearable heat.

Michael chuckles sleepily and doesn't even crack open an eye. "You sounded like a drunken moose banging around in here. Even I can't sleep through that." Dean snorts and flicks him on the nose. "_Ow._"

"Go back to sleep. I'll be back in a little while."

Michael does open his eyes at that, and Dean feels his heart swell fit to burst at the glazed, content look there. Every day he falls for the man all over the again. He doesn't think he'll ever stop, not when Michael is waiting to catch him every time.

"Alright," he yawns. "Love you, bastard." Dean smiles and dives in for another kiss, this one deeper and longer, sweeter than the last.

The night before he'd packed a lightweight pack with two water bottles, his hand wraps and other gear inside. It's still waiting by the door for him when he comes through and swings it onto his shoulder, wriggling his socked feet into his shoes. Every morning he goes for a run around the southern end of the camp and always manages to get back around late morning when Michael is only just dragging himself from bed.

This morning, though, he turns right instead of left and heads to the east side where there is a set of weathered stone stairs leading to the top of the perimeter wall. It takes him the better part of an hour to get there since the camp is so big (more like a city than anything) and the route longer from their home in South District. It would have made more sense for him to run his regular route like always, but he's got his own agenda this morning.

When he finally does make it to the stairs, he drops his bag by the steps and kneels to dig through it. From the bottom he pulls out a folded piece of cloth weighed down with something wrapped up inside. With a slight smirk, he jogs up the steps, gasping for breath by the time he reaches the top, and leans against the chain linked fence posted along the edge to keep people like him from falling off to the other side.

Stretching before him is the wasteland of what the world used to be. It's decayed and overgrown, wild in ways civilization was never meant to be. He curls his fingers through the fence and stares for a long time, allowing himself the rare occasion to remember all the events that brought him to where he is standing now.

The sun creeps up over the edge of the horizon and nearly blinds him with its intensity. The warmth of it burns color into his already tanned face and shoulders. With a quiet sigh, he pulls his hand back and flips open the cloth. Nestled in his palm is a single rusted bullet with the name 'Zero' painstakingly scratched into its surface.

A sardonic grin pulls the edges of his mouth up as he rubs the rusted texture almost fondly. Michael had found it a few days ago while digging through a box of his things he'd kept stored in the closet. He'd been reluctant to explain what it was to Dean, but had easily handed it over after when Dean asked for it.

"Feels like a lifetime ago." That's what Michael had said. Whispered, really, and Dean had gotten the impression he was talking to himself and it hadn't been meant for anyone else to hear. So Dean ignored it.

"It was a lifetime ago," he says to himself now, dropping the cloth to the ground and cupping the bullet in a loose fist. He looks up into the rising sun and takes a careful step back, careful to keep himself from tumbling back down to the path below. The birds are already chirping and people are starting to wake up. The camp sounds more alive in that moment than Dean has ever experienced.

He cocks his arm back and throws the scratched up bullet into the blinding light of the rising sun.

THE END

* * *

**A/N: **AND IT'S OVER. WHOOP WHOOP. I can honestly say I'd never thought we would get here. One thing I can take away from writing this story though is to outline shit. Because just pulling one hair-brained idea from the air and running with it sucks. It started with 'I want a hunter and human to fuck' and blew up in my face when I realized oh, hey! MORE ELEMENTS ARE INVOLVED, STUPID. Like a plot.

So that's that. Thanks for those who stuck around. You guys are pretty amazing and I'd give you all hugs and sobbing kisses if I could but since I can't, just know that I would. Repeatedly. Even if you said no.


End file.
